


Seeking knowledge

by Sliven



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Het, OC, Orthanc - Freeform, Palantir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-05-24 18:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6162661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sliven/pseuds/Sliven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Gríma, treacherous Counsellor of Théoden King, fled towards Isengard, he met someone on his way. This is the story of that meeting, and of its dire consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Five in number were the wizards, Istari. And the elves named them: Curunír the White, he who held the knowledge of the rings of power, and was said to be foremost. Radagast, he who loved all the animals and birds in Middle Earth, and the wise Mithrandir, who comes with advice and decrees. Those acted in Middle Earth until the end of the Third Age, to unite and to preserve. Or to destroy; for those Istari were in the shape of men, left to the needs of food and rest as were the mortals. They were also left to the weaknesses of men, such as greed, and the weakness to allow themselves into temptation, to listen to promises of power._ _Five in number were the Istari. Three who acted in Middle Earth, two who left for Rhûn, and yet farther east. And all knowledge of them was to be forgotten..._

An exhausted rider, on a horse also exhausted and foundering, was searching his way through the barren landscape. He was, in fact, in a great hurry, but by now his head hung deep. And as tiredness overcame him, he let his hand, instead of lashing his steed to make it proceed a bit further, drop to his side. He got off the horse with great effort, intending to lead the animal, to save it. Of course the beast was tired, and it was not possible to get a new one out here, so what good would it do to have this horse drop dead at his feet? Well, of course the horse was tired. Yet, could anyone feel as tired as did he? He, who had seen all his efforts come to nothing, was now weary to the bone, into his very soul. Years of careful work gone, like would a child's weir be swept away by a furious river. And truly, it was a river that had swept him away, thrown him out… he cut his thought short. This wasn't the place for such pondering. He kept dragging himself forward, slower and slower, until he sank to his knees as if pressed to the ground by the heaviest hand. No hope left. Desperation, was that not the worst? It would probably be wisest to sink to the ground, allowing oneself to submit to unconsciousness, to disappear… with an effort, he shook himself back. Wise? He snorted. Foolish, more likely. No time for such dreams. He exerted himself and struggled to his feet. Impatiently, he grabbed the reins and led the horse on to the west, towards Isengard.

Strange were the tidings that had come to Imaén's ear in Gondor, stranger yet were the things she had heard in Rohan. But nothing was as strange as the things she had seen for herself in Isengard. She, who had travelled wide and far and who despite her humble age possessed a fair amount of knowledge, had found herself standing, mouth wide open in surprise. She had almost had to slap herself to refrain from clapping her hands enthusiastically and laugh out loud. A saga, a legend! Well now, she had seen some other things called nothing but legends turn out to be very real indeed, but this… Mightier than tales were the Ents in their wrath as the attacked Isengard and let the river in, allowing it to sweep away and drown all the filthy trade of the orcs. When she had managed to gather herself, Imaén had retired to a safe hideout in the rocks surrounding Isengard in order to watch the destruction more safely. She didn’t much fancy being caught and accused of being a spy at this point. A spy, though? That thought did put a smile on her face. Was she not exactly that? Well, maybe the accusations were false, but it would perhaps not be enough to declare oneself innocent, since these lands were already too full of Saruman’s spies. And she doubted that few, if any, strangers would be allowed to leave without suspicion, if caught. Moreover, having attention drawn to her was not a part of her plans. It was surprising, really, that she had for so long managed to avoid discovery, considering how long she had been spying, or as she herself would phrase it, _observing_ Saruman’s doings. Already in Minas Tirith, capitol of the proud Gondorians, had she been told that the wisest scholar she would ever find was the White wizard of Isengard. She had come to Gondor in search for their wisdom and blind to the fact that they would hardly give a stranger, nonetheless a woman, access to their large and extensive archives. In there, and this she knew for certain, were real treasures, invaluable, of wisdom. History, knowledge more or less forgotten... she clenched her fists bitterly, thinking of what they'd refused to give her. She, who'd had the naive idea that knowledge would belong to whomever claimed it! Now, not all knowledge. Of course not. No, but those scrolls in Minas Tirith, what did they contain except historical events? Perhaps they hadn't taken her request seriously. They had not allowed her to speak to the rulers of the city, and she could no longer remember all of their excuses. The one thing that had stuck in her memory was a comment from one guardsman to another when they'd probably thought her out of earshot;

“We have had enough of ferreting about in our books and scrolls by now.” And the other guard had answered;

“Indeed we have. Saruman and Gandalf, both of them have been here poking. And as they both ran off in such a hurry, with neither thanks nor goodbye to our generous Lord Denethor, you'd think he'd be tired of letting out his library to anyone's services.”

Imaén had listened carefully to all of this, but since nothing of further interest was said, she'd left Minas Tirith soon after. Saruman the White, she thought, or as the elves named him, Curunír. Perhaps he would be more generous with his wisdom? At least she knew where to find him: he was well known, and well spoken of, among elves as well as humans. Many times had she heard the tales about his great wisdom.

Imaén was drawn back to the present. Wise, she thought. But not wise enough to resist greed. Oh no, hardly wise enough to cover his eyes and his ears from the Dark Lord and his promises... For when she had arrived to Isengard, orcs were all over the place, and she had not dared to make herself known. Instead, she’d been hiding, anxiously trying to find out what was going on. Many were the messengers who rode to and from Isengard these days, and once she'd spotted Nazgûl on the road. She knew about them, another tale brought to life, but she would have preferred if that tale had remained dormant. But now, her attention was drawn to some movement down on the road. What was it? A rider? Yes, a rider it was, dressed in white, and surrounded by the strangest light. He rode towards the gates of Isengard, and was greeted by the Ent guarding them. Sunlight was decreasing, and Imaén decided to climb down, just a little closer, trying to overhear what was discussed. Fortune was with her; as she reached a hideaway behind a fallen rock, the Ent and the figure dressed in white walked towards her, and so she was able to hear their conversation properly. The white clad one was talking fast and intensively;

“Helm's Deep is now being attacked by Saruman's orcs, and they will need your aid. Brave men they are, but few, and considering the great deed you've done here, I now must ask you for yet another: to relieve them!”

Imaén bit her lip thoughtfully. So that’s what it was for, the giant army of Saruman? She had never seen this Helm's Deep, but what keep could possibly resist such an enemy? But now the Ent spoke;

“Hooumm... well, I, hrrm, I would think that we could spare a few around here. With... let me see... myself left on guard, and maybe a few others, we could spare some. Sure we could.”

“Very well then, but there is yet another thing for you to know. A deserter, a spy from Théoden’s very court, has been promised safe-conduct to his rightful master, or else to wheresoever he would please. But it is my belief that he’ll chose to come here. In that case, let him into Orthanc."

“Ho-hoummmm, hrrmmm,” said the Ent doubtfully, but that had no effect upon the white one.

“Wormtongue, he’s called, but his right name, Gríma, is the one he will give you if asked.”

“Ho, ehrmmm, given such a name, I can understand if he names himself differently. I'll keep a look- out for that one, then,” said the Ent.

With this, the man in white robes seemed pleased, and turned to those little companions who had followed the Ents, and who came running towards him now.

“But Gandalf, where have you been?” cried one of them. Behind the rock, Imaén stiffened and listened sharply. Gandalf? _That_ Gandalf?

So, he was a wizard that one, another Istari? One who could share with her knowledge about times past? Or another traitor, like Saruman? Imaén did not know whether to feel hope or distrust, for could one Istari degenerate like had Saruman, why, so could others. And why would he allow Curunír to sit safely in his little tower, despite the fact that he still had a Palantír in there? Imaén knew from her studies that one of the Palantíri, the seeing stones, had been in Saruman's care, and she assumed Gandalf knew as much. And Saruman could call out to his true master for aid, could he not, through this mighty orb?

Care? Imaén snorted. Mismanagement, more like. And to tempt such a powerful man, you would indeed have to be the Dark Lord himself. I guess, she thought, there wasn’t anyone around to stop Curunír on the very day when he decided to look into the Palantír? Imaén felt uncertain. She did not know whether to trust this Gandalf, nor his motives. She tried to get a good look at him as he mounted his steed, ready to leave, but there wasn’t much to see. The sun was almost gone, and his shining white robes were confusing her eyes. White was the rider, white the horse. But had not Saruman himself worn white? Curunír, foremost, had he not been that? What did it mean now, that this newcomer wore the same colour? Imaén was left with no time to consider these queries, as the wizard left with incredible speed down the road and out of sight, shining like a falling star. And now the Ent spoke again, addressing those little ones:

“The Hourns will help them.”

For a moment, Imaén felt utterly lost. She scolded herself for not paying enough attention, but then her mind used the scraps of information to puzzle the picture out for her. The Hourns? Help them? Ah, at Helm’s Deep of course. But who are… oh, the forest! Yes, of course! Wise you are, dear friend wizard, this could make anyone drop dead in fear! Another piece from the conversation she’ just overheard tugged at her attention. Make anyone drop dead. Someone on their way towards Isengard? Wait, a deserter, had he not said so, the Istari? One who would be allowed to enter Orthanc! And, once in Orthanc...

At this thought, Imaén made sudden haste back the way she had come. Creeping and hiding at first, then almost running back to a den, comparatively safe, where she had hidden her horse and her belongings. A clever plan had started to form in her mind. She did not have much reason to believe that the trees would hurt her, would she but mind her own business and keep out of their way. She knew about trees and their powers, a knowledge hardly found in old scrolls. No, if only she kept to the fringes of the forest, there would not be much to fear. A fleeing deserter, on the other hand, one who might run head first into this marching forest… well, he would most likely turn and flee back the way he’d come. Imaén sought to prevent this. One who is declined passage through that forest will not come out alive, and Imaén really wanted him alive, that deserter. Alive and safe in Orthanc, where he might serve her purpose.

A smile, vague but sly, was on Imaén’s face as she mounted her steed and followed the trail of Gandalf, the new White wizard.


	2. Chapter 2

If only he could get there soon, if only he could have a moment’s rest... But, he reminded himself, there probably won't be much time for that. If Saruman has not yet heard the message I'm bringing him, then the more he'll hasten to take action.

He hadn't managed to get back into the saddle, and feared he would most likely fail if he tried, for he could by now barely force his feet to move. Instead, he leant on his horse, like would a wounded man lean on his comrade. And wounded he was, if yet not by blades, but his self-esteem was deflating and the weariness and despair gnawing away at him was of the kind that threatens never to give in, even when the spirit would find peace. So he dragged himself on, and deeper and deeper hung his head. He was almost unconscious when he realized that the horse was no longer moving. Gríma felt as if he had been wandering for endless time through a bank of mist. He was not certain, therefore, whether he was awake or still in a fevered dream, for as he looked up there was truly nothing but mist. Even without it, he would have had difficulties seeing much, for darkness was falling. Not being able to properly see his surroundings unsettled him, yet the fact that he was still sane enough to fear for his own safety made him slightly surprised.

He straightened his back and tried to orientate himself, but found this effort vain, as the mist and dark were more or less impenetrable and the only thing he could discern was indistinct shadows. In Rohan, with its wide and barren plains, there were hardly ever fogs like these. The more reason then, to dread this strange darkness. He tried to estimate how far he could have gotten by now. Trying to get a hold on himself despite the darkness, he hardly considered it likely that he would get lost on his way to Isengard, as he had travelled this path many a time before. Perhaps, he thought, too many a time. Surely, he would soon come to a place he could recognize, perhaps he had even made it to the Gap of Rohan? In fact, he should not be far from there by now, could he but force himself to carry on just a little bit further. Maybe he could afford to rest there for a while, so close to the border. Since he had made it this far, he probably would not need to fear pursuers. The Rohirrim were generally men of their word, and they had promised him safe-conduct. Yes, he could probably afford some rest. Encouraged by this thought, he took a few steps, only to halt anew. The trees in front of him were… wrong.

Trees? An unreasonable fear came over him, and the hand holding the reins started to tremble; he could not make it stop. The horse seemed to notice it too, it was snorting and pawing the ground.

“Trees, nothing but trees. Nothing to get upset about,” he muttered, not sure whether his words were meant to calm the horse, or himself. They did not seem to help much, however. The sound of his own voice in the heavy silence startled him, it was as if the mist would deliberately dampen every noise. And yet, through this darkness and the sultry silence came a sound. A sound that would without doubt have given him comfort, if heard elsewhere. But here in this horrible forest, it scared him almost from his senses. Forest, he thought, since when is this a forest? There shouldn’t be a forest here!

A laugh it was, a human sound but so completely out of place in this cursed place that it would have scared even braver men. Imaén had observed the deserter for a while, and watched as he got increasingly worked up. Mostly without cause, she thought. Surely, the fog was awe-inspiring and must be respected. But it was yet possible, she had found, to gaze through, if one would submit to it rather than trying to penetrate it. But then, as the man let go of his horse to grope for, she assumed, a sword; she couldn’t help herself. How foolish, she thought, does he actually plan to chop his way through the mist? She found the idea so amusing that she simply had to laugh. She hadn’t truly considered what effect this would have on the terrified man before her. But as she saw how startled he got, she felt rather pleased with herself. Fear, she knew, can be quite advantageous.

Shocked with the unexpected sound, Gríma turned around, searching for its source. But he was too confused and disoriented to find it.

“What witchcraft is this,” he called out, desperately peering through the surrounding fog. The answer came from behind, as a soft voice spoke:

“Witchcraft? Oh, I doubt it. Nor do I think that you are the one they’re seeking… this time.”

Gríma spun around, a hand at the hilt, but his mouth fell open in surprise at the sight of the figure now standing in front of him, for it seemed quite harmless. It was a woman, but only by her voice and height could he guess, since her features was hidden beneath the cowl of her cloak as well as by the mist. She came closer, grabbing the rein of his horse matter-of-factly, now holding it beside another that must be her own.

“What,” he gasped, “who… who are you?” he could think of nothing better to ask, but he could feel curiosity welling up, now that he had recovered somewhat from the shock.

“Before I tell you my name, I must demand that you tell me yours,” Imaén said. She knew it, but still, she wanted to hear his answer. One can find out plenty from a single sentence, if one only knows how to listen.

“Is that so?” Gríma considered his reply, but made the conclusion that telling his name to this woman was no big risk, even if there was a chance that she might be an enemy. Perhaps, he thought, she had even been sent here by Saruman, to greet him? This very forest might well be the work of Saruman. Yes, surely this is the case, who else holds magic powerful enough to conjure up something like this? Thus convincing himself, he answered:

“Then Gríma is my name, son of Gálmód.” He awaited her reply apprehensively. Although, even if she was an enemy, what harm could she possibly do?

“Then you are the one called Wormtongue,” Imaén said, stepping closer. But now he backed away;

“Fools are those who call me that,” he spat, “my true name is the one I gave you! Perhaps you'd now be so kind as to tell me yours?”

“I do not ask for what fools may say,” she answered with a smirk, “what I wish to know is whether you're the one I'm looking for. As for me, you can call me Imaén.”

“You have been sent out to meet me then,” said Gríma, relieved. He stepped towards her once more. “What tidings do you bring from Isengard? What is this forest, this mist?”

Imaén thought quickly. This was truly favourable! He assumed that she was sent from his master. It would, she thought, probably be an easy task to manipulate him and make him serve her purposes. Instead of answering his questions, she turned, beckoning for him to come along.

“Traveling through this forest would not be very wise,” she said. “We should instead go around it, and be careful not to disturb it.”

Gríma made no answer. Glancing back over his shoulder, he repressed a shudder and followed her without objections.


	3. Chapter 3

Imaén led her companion back the way she herself had arrived, thus leading them further north than would the original path. The air cleared up as they got to the fringe of the forest, allowing her to contemplate the man who walked beside her. She had thought of him simply as 'the deserter', but the more she saw of him, the more she had to associate him with the name he himself had offered. He was not as tall as were most of the men she had seen here, those fair-haired, proud Rohirrim. No, this man was clearly different. Imaén found herself pondering over him, over his origin; could he possibly be from Gondor? But no, he did not really resemble them, either. Slender he was, with dark hair and pale skin. He did not really remind her of anyone she’d met before, and she wondered whether he could descend from the people of the mountains? But here, she must discontinue her thought. The purpose of this mission was not to determine this man’s heritage, was it? A quick glance at him told her that if she wanted to make any use of him, they’d better make camp now, he sure looked like he could need some rest.

Gríma did not object, but gratefully collapsed in front of the woman who had called herself Imaén, on the spot she had assigned. Here, at the very edge of the forest, the fog had yielded and given way to more ordinary darkness, much to Gríma's relief. He watched the woman as she searched her saddle-bags for provisions. Himself, he carried nothing but the clothes on his back. He had not even had the time to get his books, which grieved him badly. For what use were they in Edoras, who would ever read them? His only hope was that they would still be there, once the war was over. If Saruman wins, that is. The treacherous thought came unbidden, but not for the first time. He tried to quell it, focusing instead on Imaén and her doings. Where could Saruman have found this girl? She was certainly not from Edoras, but he could not remember ever seeing her in Isengard, either. She was rather short, and her motions were different from those of most Rohirrim, riders as they were. And she moved silently; he had noticed how softly she’d walked through the forest, hardly making a noise. Silently, with the force of habit. How could she be so at ease in this forest? To the best of Gríma’s knowledge, only Elves lived in the woods these days. The humans of Middle Earth had built themselves cities and castles. And Elves were tall and fair, those shimmering people of the light... whoever this Imaén might be, an Elf she was not. He could see her more clearly now, as midnight had come and gone and a slight touch of gray in the east now portended dawn. The woman wore a dark cloak that went all the way down to her feet. The cowl was still up, leaving her face mostly in shadow. It resembled the sort of clothing commonly worn in Gondor, but then, Gríma thought, clothes do not necessarily tell truth. He felt certain, however, that she was not from Rohan. Even something in her accent was too soft to fit the harsh plains of the kingdom.

Imaén felt his investigating gaze upon her. She sat down cross-legged, offering him a parcel with bread and cheese and a waterskin made of smooth leather. He was obviously starving, but concealed his eagerness most politely. And most unnecessarily, Imaén reflected, as she had already noticed that he carried neither food nor other supplies. Still, she found his manners delightful; she had not thought he would have much dignity, and courtesy surely was the last thing she would have expected from a traitor.

Gríma drank deeply from the waterskin, and then he felt Imaén’s eyes upon him. She seemed amused, he thought, but it was hard to rightly tell her facial expression under the cowl.

“It is seldom wise to leave without water, not even when one's in a hurry,” she commented.

“True enough, but one who rides with urgent news must learn to... prioritize," was Gríma’s dry reply.

“Mayhap,” she continued, “but the herald who rides off without water is a herald who cannot count on arriving with his tongue safe and sound. One must wonder what kind of message might be so important that the herald chooses to leave such a... fundamental detail behind?”

Gríma glared at her. “The herald who chooses not to bring water is a man who rides for his life, bringing his message to his master’s ear, and nowhere else. That herald would not let his dry tongue slip and his words fly to the ears of a guide: they are far too valuable for that.”

Imaén was impressed. He could retort, this one, and was obviously used to slipping away by rhetorical means. It seemed that she had underestimated him.

“Now, pray tell me, what news do you bring from Isengard,” Gríma continued crisply, “with what message were you sent by Saruman?”

Imaén gave him an evaluating look before answering; “No message came from his mouth to my ear. My task here, as you so correctly pointed out, is to guide, for ancient forces are acting this night, marching towards Helm's Deep.”

At these words, Gríma winced, staring at her in distrust. However, there was nothing to indicate that she was telling him anything but the truth. Imaén read his expression and repressed a sly smile, for she had indeed told him nothing but the truth, though with words cleverly angled to suit the mind of her listener.

Gríma hesitated to ask, but ventured; “Then, what are those forces?”

“That is not for me to tell you,” she replied sternly. “Like your message is for your master’s ears only, so this knowledge is not for yours.”

Distrust still lingered in Gríma’s eyes. Imaén smiled soothingly and changed the subject. “We should remain her for a while, the night is not yet over.”

“Darkness hardly scares me,” he sniffed, “and my message is urgent. I should be on my way as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” purred Imaén, “But if the herald wants to get his message safely to its recipient, he should indeed wait until dawn. For even though darkness does not frighten him,” she smiled ironically, “there are nevertheless forces that he should not challenge.”

Gríma made as if to object, but then seemed to think better of it. Truth be told, he wasn’t too eager to venture into that mist again. And all talk of ancient powers scared him far more than he was willing to admit, even to himself. He looked at the woman, wondering again whom she might be. He decided to carefully gratify his curiosity, as he felt certain now that she was indeed one of Saruman’s servants. This gave him by no means any reason to trust her, but he hardly thought a prudent questioning would do any harm.

“You have not yet told me who you are, or how you came to be a servant of the White Wizard,” he said. “But I can easily tell that you're not from Rohan. Nor are you from Gondor either, if I might guess.”

**“** Guess if you like,” Imaén said, “that is no concern of mine. You are right, though, it would be foolish of me to pretend that I was from Rohan. And I have been to Gondor, that much is true, but I am not Gondorian either. Tell me, what would be your next guess?”

“I do appreciate riddles, but this seems not to be a time for such entertainments,” said Gríma irritably. Still, he wanted to satisfy his curiosity, so he carried on; “Well, my next guess would be that you’ve resided with the Elves in the woods, though I see clearly that you are not one of them.”

Imaén looked delighted. Attentive he was, and clever at stinging with his words... very well, but so was she. “So, you can see that? Well, one can see a lot if one has got two eyes, isn’t blind and if the sun is shining," she answered mockingly.

“One surely could,” Gríma snapped, “But considering that no sun is shining over us, I venture to say I can see well enough. Now tell me where you come from.”

How splendid, Imaén thought. Seldom did she get such pleasure out of a conversation. She was becoming increasingly convinced that he was no simple traitor, this one. Surely he was a scholar, and with such rhetorical skills, he must have been an esteemed member of Edoras' court. The thought struck her; they had named him Wormtongue... most likely because of his talent with words. How typical, she thought, of these unsophisticated Rohirrim to give one so clever such a vulgar name.

“Were I to judge by your speech, I would guess your origin isn’t Rohirric either, so trust not only what your eyes can tell,” she answered. “However, I must give you right. I have resided in the woods. But perhaps not in any that you are familiar with: in fair Clairion am I born, the forest located at Claivón, the waters your people call Lake Rhûn.”

Truth is sometimes the best lie available. Imaén knew this better than most, having used it as such many times before. But she didn’t want him to think her words mere tales. She sought to win his trust by telling him something about herself. And, she thought, once he trusted her, it would be no hard task making him expose a weak spot… a leak, as it were, one where her mind could easily sneak in. Yes, Imaén thought, trust could be an adequate way into Orthanc. And if he wouldn’t trust her… well, she did have access to other means as well.


	4. Chapter 4

Lake Rhûn? Gríma shook his head slightly in amazement as he anew contemplated the woman before him. Could she really be from that far off? And if so, then what in the world was she doing here? Then again, if she was indeed telling the truth, that might explain why she seemed so accustomed with the forest.

“So, you’ve come all the way from Rhûn? That is truly a faraway land. I did not know that Isengard had connections in Rhûn,” he said, carefully brushing the breadcrumbs from his elaborate cloak.

“There are most certainly other things of which you know nothing,” said Imaén dryly, “but from Rhûn I am.”

Thinking that his next question might be about the exact nature of her errand in Rohan, she decided to steer the conversation down a new path; “But even though I come from afar, you were right in your second assumption as well; I have indeed met with Elves. Though it's now a long time ago,” she hastened to add, only just recalling Saruman's doings with Orcs. Elves certainly were not a safe subject either. But Gríma did not seem bothered by her words, his mind seemed elsewhere.

“You said that you were born in a forest,” he said thoughtfully.

“That I said, in fair Clairion. Deep and wide is that forest, a good land to live in,” she replied.

“Then a country such as this must seem barren and severe to you,” he continued, looking at her inquiringly.

Imaén peeked at him from underneath her cowl. Did he refer to anything special? As a matter of fact, she had felt very relaxed in the presence of the trees. Had he perhaps noticed that her guard was down? But no, he still seemed lost in thoughts, didn’t even look at her any longer. Instead, he gazed out over the wide landscape, hiding out there in the dark.

“A harsh land it is... a cold land, for cold people to dwell in,” he muttered. Imaén assumed that he was now speaking mostly to himself. He sighed deeply, and she felt a sudden sting of pity for him, for such words often allude to the speaker. But no, she thought, this was not a time to let emotions speak. She had to concentrate: perhaps this was her best chance to influence him?

Carefully, she moved herself closer to him, and mumbled softly; “Indeed, this land seems cold. But pray tell me: all who live here cannot have allowed themselves to be moulded by the same wind that moulds the very landscape?”

Gríma gave a small start when perceiving her so close, but replied rigidly; “Wild is the wind, that blows through their hearts. Stern are the men... and cold the women.”

Ah, Imaén thought, that’s it, then? With a statement like that, he had practically spelled out for her how she might best put her wiles to use. If she had known that it would be as easy as this… She stifled a triumphant smirk with great effort, and reached out gingerly to lay a soft hand on his arm.

“Truly,” she purred, “I am glad to have lived protected from such winds. In Clairion the breeze is mild. There, the people are formed by the trees’ songs and by the clear reflections of Claivón. It is a peaceful land.”

Gríma stiffened. Her gesture filled him with suspicion, as tenderness had never been a thing lavishly spent on him. But it did seem harmless enough, that slender hand resting on his arm. Pale it was, in sharp contrast to his dark cloak it appeared white and fragile. And for a moment he thought he saw a different hand, in a different place. White was also that hand, and fragile it appeared. But it was hard, knew well how to wield a sword. And never had that hand rested tenderly upon him.

Imaén saw a number of emotions pass over his face. He was obviously not certain of her intentions, but on the other hand, he had made no attempt to shake her off. Very well, a small conquest...

“Yes,” she continued quietly, “a peaceful land indeed. Moss grows there, to ease the wanderer’s path, and birds sing the tired ones to sleep.” With her free hand, Imaén removed her cowl and looked at Gríma.

“A… a fair country, indeed, it seems,” he mumbled, studying her features. Something in her look made him feel uneasy, though he found it hard to tell exactly what. She did seem tender enough, but wasn’t there a tightness to her eyes, something harsh? But then she spoke, and in her voice was nothing but affection. It was so smooth, the words gently pouring into his ears to leave him wanting for more.

Imaén leaned even closer as she spoke quietly into his ear; “A fair country it is, one where even fleeing prey may find shelter.” He made a small attempt as if to pull away, but then relaxed. She stroked his shoulder gently.

Inexplicably, Gríma felt a sudden rush of worry. That soft voice, surely it reminded him of something? He shouldn't listen, he mustn't! Yet, as she mumbled in his ear and he felt her warm breath on his cheek, all his apprehensions seemed to slip away. Imaén lifted a hand to his forehead, gently tucking a dark lock away behind his ear. She allowed her fingers to glide down his cheek and come to rest at his lips, touching them ever so softly. She could feel his lip tremble, and thought contentedly that she was close now, oh, so close… with a gentle grip, she seized his chin and turned his face towards her own. Careful now… he did not look away. For a moment, Imaén faltered. Was it pity threatening to take advantage of her? She pushed the thought firmly away. Nonsense. And she did not allow herself the slightest smile of exaltation as she gazed deeply into Gríma’s eyes.

Gríma took a deep breath. Her eyes were green, as were they reflecting the trees in the forest she had spoken of. But in the centre was a ring of yellow, glowing and subjugating. He wondered absently how he could tell the colour of her eyes, since all else in the night seemed grey. Perhaps, he thought, the moon had lit them up. Only, there was no moon… the thought disappeared abruptly, as he was suddenly wrapped in a light feeling of unconcern, like a soft blanket shielding all his worries away. Before him was a woman, and as she leaned towards him he anticipated her and kissed her with an ardour that would have amazed him greatly, had he only been able to think.

Imaén closed her eyes and graciously allowed herself to be kissed. Combine business with pleasure? Well, by all means! Judging by the way he touched her, and by how his eyes glowed, all fears and questions gone, she knew she had fulfilled her task well. She could wrap him around her finger, would it please her. Yes, the spell had been well cast, she thought with a smile, addressed to Gríma as she allowed herself to sink down to the ground beneath him.

The last thing he could recall was hardly even a thought, but more of a sensation. Long, soft hair that he could run his fingers through. Somehow, this awoke a diffuse memory of something else, of blond locks… He was surprised that the memory didn’t cause pain, but he knew no longer why he would have thought that it might. He didn’t remember to whom the blond locks belonged. The heat rising inside him covered everything else, and he kissed the strange woman again and again, driven by a hunger he did not rightly understand.


	5. Chapter 5

Slowly crept the morning light over the plains, a new day was dawning. Imaén wrapped her cloak tightly about her and suppressed a shiver. Even as the world grew brighter and the night gave way, the raw night air still lingered. The wide landscape was empty now. The Hourns had passed by during the night, not disturbing those who'd sought shelter in the edge of the forest. She felt a sting of loss. They were trees, after all. And finding a forest out here, even a wandering one, was enough to awake a slightly aching homesickness. Now, there was no trace of any forest, quiet and empty lay the land around her. Imaén sighed and gathered herself. This certainly wasn’t the time to bury oneself in sentimentality. The sun was almost up; she had matters to take care of.

Looking at the man who lay beside her, she thought he had probably neither seen nor heard the forest move. Well, she had made an effort to keep his attention elsewhere. Vulnerable he seemed to her where he lay. Even in sleep wore he a tense expression, eyebrows frowned. The chilly morning breeze made him shiver, and Imaén had to resist a sudden impulse to lie down again, wrap her cloak around him and warm him. She shook her head, had she not decided merely moments ago to put away her homesickness? Well, same could apply to any irrelevant emotion. He needed to wake soon anyway. The chill, thought Imaén, would help with that.

Gríma woke with a feeling of emptiness; as if he had lost something during the night. He writhed uncomfortably, wondering why he was lying on such a hard bed. It was cold. He hadn’t been this cold when he fell asleep – nor had he been alone when he fell asleep? A pleasant memory started to rise, but again he was overcome by the feeling of having lost something important. He sat up and looked bemusedly around him.

Imaén met his hunted look, and saw it calmed by her mere presence. Good, she thought. The spell she had concealed behind emotions found during the night would serve as a way into his mind, for her to use as it pleased her. A way into Orthanc, even. Now, she would only have to make sure that every trace was well hidden, that her carefully made footprints could not be discovered, should Curunír wish to press his little messenger.

Gríma felt his breath quicken at the sight of her. The first rays of the rising sun fell on her at the very moment she turned towards him and he was able to see her clearly for the first time. First thing that caught his eye was what he had not been able to see in the night: her hair. It had the colour of embers in a fireplace, and it fell down over her shoulders, beautifully bringing out a face with high cheek-bones, pointy chin and large eyes. Those eyes… he swallowed hard. But as he searched his mind for her name, he realized that he must have forgotten it. Somewhat bothered, he searched harder, thinking that his memory usually served him better than this. After all, she had – well, the two of them had – and she had said… Gríma hesitated. What _had_ she said? The events of the night seemed suddenly muddled. Instead, he got a sense of hurry, indicating that he should get up, that he had someplace where he ought to be.

Imaén got up, carefully ignoring the questions she could read on his face. She went to get his horse, and in a sudden rush of pity, she removed her own waterskin from her saddle and tied it instead onto his. Part of her was sneering at herself for doing this, but she quelled the voice of reason, thinking that she could manage without it, while he most certainly could not. And you want him to get safe and sound into Orthanc, do you not? The man was exhausted from his hardships, she decided, and let the waterskin remain where it was as she led the horse towards him.

Gríma rose. As he looked at the strange woman, he felt peculiar, wanting to drop every other task and wishing for naught but to sink to the ground with her once more. But the look on her face kept him back, and the moment was gone. Without a word, she handed him the reins and he stepped forward. Thinking to say something, he caught her gaze. And there they were, then, the glowing circles in her eyes, urging him; Go, go! With sudden haste, he mounted his steed and spurred it into a gallop. He rode with no glance back.

As she watched him disappear, Imaén a strange tangle of emotions. She wished to dance and clap her hands, there went her link into Orthanc, her chance to find out more about the White wizard’s doings, and perhaps even a chance to affect his plans. On the other hand, she felt almost on the verge of tears, as if she had sent a dear friend straight into the jaws of danger. She shook herself. A dear friend? Such folly! She mustn’t allow herself to get seduced by emotions. Imaén considered them unimportant, the thought of her goal appealed to her much more. To actually accomplish something, was that not grander than all else? Besides, what was he but a traitor, a mere deserter? No, she thought, a chance to get into Curunír’s nest, that is all he is, this Wormtongue.

Gríma rode with great haste, no longer feeling the inanition from the night before. He had for some reason gotten further north than he had calculated, but the lost time was easy to make up for with a rested horse. Rohan's horses were well known for their speed.

Strange images came unbidden to his mind; the night past seemed filled with impressions that wanted to make themselves known. But for some reason, they all escaped as he tried to get a better glimpse of them. He assumed that he must have dreamt, and that his dream must have been about Éowyn, the proud, fair maiden who'd awoken his desires and caught his heart. But though he tried to get hold of it, the memory slipped into a haze. With sudden despair he pushed these fragments of reminiscences away. Of more importance now was to prepare for the meeting with Saruman. He must confess that he had failed, and get ready to face the wizard’s wrath, certain to follow. He had to think methodically of what to say and how to phrase things, if he was to convince his master that everything was not lost, that it may yet be possible to win this war through tactical means. Tactics were something Gríma had mastered, and he was sure Saruman would agree that he could still be of good use. Northwards now, nearer and nearer the gates of Isengard. Gríma’s mood lightened the further he got. Surely Saruman would welcome him in spite of his failures; after all, Gríma knew well the mind of Théoden king. There was no reason to worry. Not far now, before he reached safety inside the gates of Isengard.

The morrow had promised sunshine, but as the hours passed by, the sun had wrapped itself in a mist and the day was now gray. Gríma let his horse trot up to the gates, momentarily lost in thought. Was there not something he ought to remember, something that had to do with mist? Consequently, he was not at all prepared for the sight that greeted him. Where the secure, impregnable Isengard should have been, was now utter destruction. Sheds and scaffolds had been demolished, and all over the place were pools of water and mud, as if a violent downpour had ravaged here.

Gríma’s mouth fell open, his usually pale face now white with fear as he tried to keep his hands from trembling. A number of thoughts scrambled through his head, not one of them sane enough to help clear out this situation. In panic, Gríma turned his horse, wishing for naught but escape. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement next to him. Some small figures and one very tall – treelike? A tree? Gríma’s panic increased; not trees, oh no, not now! He fought desperately to turn his horse the other way instead so that he could get away. But then, the walking nightmare grabbed him, lifting him from his horse and high into the air. It wasn’t painful, the grip was actually rather careful. That, however, was no consolation to Gríma who now found himself hanging high above the ground. And as if this was not enough, the creature now spoke, demanding answers. Gríma tried desperately to think of some.

“Gríma is my name,” he managed, “advisor of the king of Rohan, urgent tidings am I bringing from Théoden to the master of Isengard”. He hoped intensely that the creature would comprehend and let go of him.

And let go of him it did; he found himself sprawling on the ground, the fall leaving him breathless. Assuming that that his words had been accepted, he continued in a shaky voice;

“No one else could be spared for such a dangerous journey. I was sent, but my way has led me farther than I thought,” he rattled on, “a long detour to the north I had to take, wolves and orcs following my tracks.” Wolves, he thought, why did I say that? Though I came from north, did I not? And all this cursed mist…

To all of this, the creature said nothing. Gríma hesitated, then risked a quick glance around, following his instinct and trying to assure himself that he still had a way to escape. But no such way seemed available, and this… this _thing_ kept staring at him. Gríma, though uncomfortable, remained on the ground. Did the creature not believe him? Apparently not so, for now the tree-creature spoke;

“Houm hrrrrmmmmm, well, I expected you would come, Wormtongue.”

Cursing inwardly, Gríma bowed his head to the ground in an attempt to hide his wry expression.

“Gandalf made it here first,” the rumbling voice continued, “so I know what I need to know about you, and what to do with you. Place all the rats in the same trap, said Gandalf – and so it shall be. I am the master of Isengard now, and Saruman is all locked up in his tower. You may as well go there and bring him any the message you can think of.”

A sense of relief came over Gríma, and he looked up; “Yes, let me go there. I know the way, so let me go.” He was eager to get into Orthanc. Fools were they, if they thought to keep one so powerful locked up in a tower. Surely, thought Gríma, Saruman must have a plan. He would be better off, if only he could get to the wizard.

“You _knew_ the way, I’m sure,” the Ent interrupted his thoughts. “But things have changed a bit around here. Come see for yourself.”

Gríma scrambled to his feet, eager to get away from this horrible creature. He grimaced; the Ent had not been too gentle, after all, when lifting Gríma from his horse and he staggered over to the gates. Once there, however, he turned back abruptly to the ones who’d followed him, anguished by the sight that had greeted him. For between him and Orthanc lay water, a river filled with mud and single pieces of wood from the broken sheds. Was this all that remained of proud Isengard? When last he had seen it, it had seemed invincible to him, a tall black tower and the mighty army Saruman had crafted. But now…

“Let me go again, let me leave,” he whimpered. “My errand is useless now!”

“It probably is,” the Ent replied, “but there are but two choices for you now: stay here under my supervision until Gandalf returns with your true master – or I suppose I should say your _former_ master – or else, you'll have to wade through the water. Now, which will it be?”

Gríma shuddered. Gandalf Stormcrow would come here, with Théoden King? He had been offered pardon once, but knew he wouldn’t receive that offer twice. Especially not if they found him here. He put one foot hesitantly in the water, but as the chill penetrated his boot, he gasped and drew it back. Rohirric footwear were not meant for water. One last time, he turned to face the one who had named himself Master of Isengard;

“I cannot swim,” he pleaded, hoping they might still allow him to leave. But it was all in vain.

“This water is not very deep, only dirty,” the creature scoffed. “I do believe that dirt is your true element, is it not, master Wormtongue? Now, get on out there, hurry up!”

Swallowing what self-esteem he had left, Gríma turned and went into the water. Cold it was, and truly dirty, the creature had been right about that. He didn't bother about the hint that had followed the comment, just managing to cross all of this was more than enough. The water made him heavy, pulling at his robes, chilling him. It got deep enough that he could barely keep his head over the surface, and he considered whether he should just allow himself to sink, to stop breathing and drown in this cold darkness. But then, he hit something hard; a plank, half hidden in the mud, but still floating. The instinct to survive took over, and he clung on to the plank, desperately paddling with his feet. When he finally hit the stairs of Orthanc, he was too tired to realize that he had made it: that he was really there. He crawled up a few steps, just out of reach of the water. That was enough. He would probably have remained there if not for the fact that someone inside of Orthanc had kept a lookout for him and watched his struggles. Someone who cared enough for the message the underling had brought for Isengard to reach out…

And so, Saruman the wizard hauled an exhausted Wormtongue into Orthanc.


	6. Chapter 6

Imaén reached her hideout among the rocks shortly before Gríma entered Orthanc. She had left soon after him, but had been forced to make a detour in order to get to her den unseen, sneaking her way through the cliffs. After she’d taken care of her horse, Imaén pulled her cloak tight around her and climbed down toward the gates of Isengard. She would have to wait and watch, now, to look out for an opening. The shadows behind a large rock made for an excellent hiding; a place from which she could watch without being seen.

She saw the little ones, who had arrived with the Ents. They seemed to have found supplies that had survived the ravage, and Imaén contemplated them and their doings. She felt that she was hungry now, and thirsty as well, and she cursed the damned pity that had made her give up her waterskin. She had quenched her thirst earlier in the Isen, but that was small consolation to her now, as she watched the little ones eat. However, her hunger was somewhat replaced by surprise as she saw one of the creatures down at the gates pull out a small object, stuff something in it and then produce smoke from his mouth! She had never seen anything quite like it, but the little ones seemed to appreciate it. Imaén had to stifle a chuckle when she saw their faces; it was obvious that they considered this smoking a great pleasure.

Having assured herself that everything seemed to be at peace around Isengard, Imaén decided that it was time to find out whether Gríma really had made it into Orthanc. She wanted to ferret about a bit, to get an idea of what she might achieve. Perhaps there were things in Orthanc that could be made unserviceable? Some sorcerers, Imaén had learned, had got a certain predilection for transferring their powers to various number of objects. Such objects could indeed increase the wizard’s powers, but Imaén considered this kind of magic perilous. With his magic thus divided, a sorcerer would sustain severe damage, should the magical object fail him or be destroyed. Imaén preferred not to rely on such aid, but to keep her powers intact within herself. The magic of mind, that is, the very thing that would allow her to peek into the sealed tower of Orthanc… pleased with herself, Imaén settled down and closed her eyes.

_This is Orthanc. Mighty halls carved from black stone and gray, magnificent vaults and pillars…_

Imaén could sense Gríma’s mind, and searched her way towards it. Her impression of the tower was not a clear vision, but more that of a blind person’s, whose fingertips are gently touching a face; an estimation of the room. She could feel traces of those who had inhabited the space, both presently and of old. Imaén felt an ancient wisdom, almost pompous, and oddly contradicting more recent traces of small-minded greed. Then, there were glowing specks of pain, the impressions clearer to her mind, if yet smaller. Humans had suffered in here not long ago. Perhaps not only humans. Imaén could feel some strange elements as well, but she payed them no attention now, reaching instead for the fresh pain that had led her in.

Gríma sat shrunken by a pillar in one of Orthanc’s many halls. He was faint and discouraged after Saruman’s interrogation, the white wizard had treated him roughly and had refused to hear his excuses. Late, but bitterly, had Gríma learned that Saruman's nature was but little forgiving. He had not bothered to bring up any of the half-shaped plans he’d nourished on his way here, the sight of Isengard defeated had chased away any hope of victory. Shivering in his still wet clothes, he had eventually been allowed to retire from the furious wizard. He searched shelter among the shadows, and they welcomed him in like so many a time before. Heavy drops of water fell from his hair down on his face, glistening on his cheeks. They could easily have been mistaken for tears. He swept them away impatiently.

So, this was all that had become of those years and years of work. He was bitter now, thinking he should have known better. But then, he thought, how could I have chosen differently? Who could have resisted such a prize? As so often, his mind went to the fair, but cold maiden, for whom he would have done anything, had she only looked at him. Saruman had not been late to take advantage of those feelings. But, thought Gríma, at least the prize for which he had finally sold himself was high. He sighed, uneasy. Though this idea had deafened his conscience before, it didn't seem much of a consolation now. He felt something poking at his hip, and realized he wasn’t sitting very comfortably. He grasped for that bothersome thing, but annoyance changed to contemplation as he pulled out the watersack. It was of course wet and dirty now, as was he, but he knew that it had been made of a light kind of leather, smooth and soft. He had moved it from his saddle and tied it onto his belt because that had been more convenient, that was right... but where had he gotten it? He hadn't carried water, or anything else for the matter, when he left Edoras. And furthermore, this was not Rohirrim craft. The water-sack invoked a sense of relief, but it worried him all the same. He could find no reasonable explanation for any of those feelings. For one who likes to consider things logically, sudden emotions about strange objects seem quite disturbing. Overall, Gríma considered himself above such impulses, regarding them as more fit for hot-headed people who simply would not stop to _think_. This annoyed him thoroughly, and by Gríma’s standards, it applied to most people. He turned the watersack in his hands, but it held no answers for him. With a sigh, he tied it back onto his belt. After all, he might as well keep it. Finding oneself without water is seldom wise.

Imaén let her mind touch gently with Gríma’s. She could feel his pain, and his worries over the watersack. But mostly, she felt the fear and despair surrounding him like a cloud. She hesitated. To put more pressure on this man might be devastating. Was it really her right? But she pushed her doubts away. Having made all these efforts for nothing? Well, perhaps not _everything_ could be considered an effort, precisely, but now was not the time to think of that. Now was a time for concentration. She carefully extended her mind, allowing it to spread out and surround Gríma, thus allowing her to see through his eyes. She could now more distinctly feel, since it affected him so badly, the Istar’s frustration and fury pulsating through Orthanc. Gríma must be located on one of the nether floors, she thought, for very little light had found its way into this hall. The wizard seemed to be upstairs. She would have to be careful not to come close to him, for fear that he would become aware of such an intrusion immediately. Imaén intended to explore the tower well hidden behind Gríma’s mind. But before she could put her plan into action, she sensed a sudden presence: someone was approaching Isengard from outside.

With a start, Imaén returned to herself. Once she had opened her eyes, she could feel the ground quaking, and shortly after she heard the confirming hoof beats; riders were approaching the gates. A whole troop came out of the mist, twenty or more. Imaén moved deeper into shadow, waiting. They were Rohirrim, most of them, and she saw the other Istari, Gandalf, next to an old man with a majestic look. There was also in the crowd an Elf, Imaén noticed with a certain interest, and a creature who must be a Dwarf. Imaén had never before met with any Dwarf, nor had she heard the Elves speak well of them. The bigger the surprise then, seeing these two, the Elf and the Dwarf, together; sharing the same horse. Curious, Imaén watched the company as they moved towards the gates.

She realized with sudden clarity that surely the presence of Gandalf and his comrades must mean that they, with the help of the Hourns, had defeated Curunír’s giant army! Her respect for the strangers increased. But what could it mean that they were all here now, by the bidding of this new white Istari? She was still suspicious, although she knew by now that the wizard was a friend of Fangorn. The fact that he was traveling in the company of an Elf surely spoke in his favour, as far as Imaén was concerned.

She listened up as the little ones at the gate introduced themselves as Hobbits and hailed the elderly man as King. This confirmed what she had already guessed; Théoden, King of Rohan, had surely defeated the Orcs at his stronghold. The party at the gates split up as Gandalf and Théoden King went to speak with the Ents, while the Elf, Dwarf and one of the men remained at the gates with the Hobbits. The man was apparently not one of the Rohirrim, Imaén deducted, as she heard them talking about food. She smiled at the little ones. They seemed to her a fun and cheerful people. But once they all left the gates, heading for one of the remaining buildings – one which contained food, she assumed – she returned her mind to matters of her own. Was it likely that Gandalf would try to fight Curunír? Imaén doubted this. But surely they would try to reach some kind of agreement, probably outside Orthanc, she thought. She glanced around, cautiously, and hurried to a new hiding from where she could be sure to see the tower of Orthanc. Once she’d assured her hideout safe enough, she planned to enter Gríma’s mind once more. However, she was interrupted as the Hobbits and their fellows came out from the building and took seats not far from her. This was somewhat bothersome. Silence was not necessary for her skill, but it helped. Especially in precarious situations. The conversation was disturbing her. They seemed to be exchanging stories, speaking of the Ents and of Saruman.

Imaén was curious by nature, but right now, she wished for naught but silence. Could they not have kept their stories for another time? Were there no matters of greater importance than comrades’ doings since last seen? But apparently not so. They smoked now, while the Hobbits entertained the others with a comprehensive account of the assault of Isengard. Imaén had been there, and did not find the recount as interesting as did the Hobbits’ audience. She wondered if they ever planned to take a leave. But then, her attention was caught as the conversation took a new start. She thought she had heard... she listened sharply as one of the Hobbits spoke:

“...From the mist came a man on an exhausted horse, he seemed to be tired and distorted himself, too. All alone. When he came out of the mist and suddenly saw all the devastation he just sat there, mouth wide open, and didn't seem to notice us at all. And then, when he finally did, he screamed and tried to ride of again. But Treebeard lifted him right out of the saddle, and the horse ran off, terrified.”

Imaén bit her lip thoughtfully. For some reason, the story did not amuse her. She had scared him in the forest, surely she should find it funny that an Ent had literally lifted him from his horse? And yet...

“He said that his name was Gríma, and he claimed to be friend and counsellor to Théoden,” the Hobbit continued. “But he gave Treebeard such a sidelong glance, and me, I thought he was lying. And Treebeard must have thought the same, he called the man Wormtongue. He wasn't too happy about that, the man.”

Shouldn’t think he was, Imaén thought. She felt strangely conflicted.

“Well,”, the Hobbit continued, “he crawled like a worm on the ground and whimpered, and Treebeard said that Gandalf had said, that the man should be allowed to enter Orthanc. And the man seemed to be glad about that, until he saw what it looked like behind the walls. But Treebeard didn't give in, the man had to wade through the water, and in he got at last, like a wet rat!”

Imaén sniffed. I suppouse you would speak differently about it, were you to wade there yourself, midget, she thought. The Hobbit, however, continued;

“I'd like to know, though, whether it was true what he said, if he really did serve the King?”

“He did,” the dark-haired man replied. “But he was also a spy for Saruman. The mere sight of this, that he considered so mighty, torn to pieces... it must almost have been enough of a punishment. I fear, though, that far worse awaits him.”

At those words, Imaén felt a chill run down her spine, cold enough to make her gasp. For a moment she lay still, heart beating hard, convinced that they must have heard her. But they just kept on talking. That man though, there sure was something about him. Imaén watched him closely, and the more she saw of him, the taller and brighter he seemed to her. Much to her own surprise, Imaén could feel her hands trembling. Tentatively, she sent her mind floating towards this man in an attempt to find out whom he might be, only to find that she could not. There was no way through. She should have been able to sense his mind, he was close enough, but a powerful aura surrounded him like a shield, almost blinding to Imaén’s inner sight. Hastily, she pulled back. He was no common soldier, that one. What she had sensed resembled magic, but was yet different. Suddenly, she felt hesitant and uncertain. What the man had said scared her. Somehow, in her trained mind, she knew that it was no mere words, but more like a prediction.


	7. Chapter 7

A voice rang from the gate and through the empty halls of Orhanc. A dominant voice it was, and it clang loud enough to wake the man who’d sat, lost in dark thoughts. Gríma gave a start. When such a voice calls, one must obey. Few, if any, can resist its bidding. Shivering, he rose and stumbled to the tower doors. Once he’d reached them he stopped, hesitant since the one the voice had called for, Saruman, was nowhere to be seen. Well, Gríma thought listlessly, he will not get rid of his visitors by less than responding to their summons. But since Saruman chose not to appear, Gríma finally pulled the shutter from the look-out window above the gate. Stepping to the side, he tried to peer out without being seen, true to his habit. But this window was placed too high, and he could not see who had called, unless he was to lean out to have a look. This was not his intention, he thought the hardships of the day had been enough. Making himself an easy target for an arrow to pierce his neck would favour neither him nor Saruman, but the one who had called out did not do so again. He would have to answer them.

“Who is this,” he ventured, “and what do you want?” the sound of his own voice discouraged him, it seemed strange to him, thin and unfamiliar. Was it the very voice that had so cunningly brewed the sweetest lies and poured them into Théoden King’s ear? The decrepit Théoden, who had allowed himself to be led astray and get weakened, yet he had stood up forcefully and thrown Gríma out of his court. He had thrown the influential Gríma, son of Gálmód, out and made him an exile, a…

“Go fetch us Saruman, since you’ve now become his footman, Gríma Wormtongue! And spill no more of our time!” the voice interrupted.

Footman? Gríma was drawn back to the present. Yes, perhaps that was the word that best suited him. Gríma the footman, Gríma the herald, a new message to bring to your master’s ear. He shut the hatchway and headed towards the graceful stairs that led up to the floors above. As he started to climb them he got a strange sensation, almost as if he was looking down at himself from the outside. He could see his feet, moving from step to step, but they seemed somehow too far away. The watersack hit his leg rhythmically, and without thought, he reached for it and held on tight. Oddly enough, it offered more stability then did the handrail. Gríma shook his head slightly, thinking that perhaps he was going mad. Stronger men than he had lost all sense in Orthanc, and he asked himself, not for the first time, why he had come here at all.  

_To bring your message to your master’s ear_ , came the unbidden answer. _And to his ear only_.  

However, it would seem that Saruman already knew the contents of this particular message. He hardly paid Gríma any mind as he entered the study, but merely nodded abstractedly.

“Gandalf wishes to speak…” Gríma managed, but Saruman snapped;

“Gandalf Gray wishes for many things, and right you were to name him Láthspell, for he is indeed ill news. But you tongue has served me enough for now, I do not want to hear any more from you. Go to your chambers and stay away. I will speak to Gandalf Stormcrow alone.”

Saruman turned his back and disappeared out on the balcony. Gríma lowered his head and left the room, slowly continuing his walk up the stairs. They went ever on, he thought, and he muttered; “Were time itself measured in steps, I am sure that the two stairs from here and to my chamber would be the eternity.”

As he reached the end of the first staircase, he sat down. He felt exhausted, but thought that it was not due to physical effort, but more because of his weary mind. He was right outside of the library, where several books and invaluable scrolls were to be found. History, runic words of magic, half-forgotten tales and legends... compared to these collections, the books Gríma had left behind in Edoras were simple. He hadn't yet had the opportunity to look more closely into the wizard’s library, partly because of the lack of time, but mostly since things of greatest value and power were kept in here. Saruman did not want the Wormtongue sneaking in without being seen to, which was probably a wise thought. But now, Gríma felt a sudden desire to enter the room. While anxiously glancing down the stairs, he extended hesitant fingers to the handle. Entering the library other than in the company of Saruman was strictly forbidden. But as temptation overcame him, he simply could not resist. Taking a deep breath, Gríma pressed the handle and gently pushed the door open. He had thought it might give a disclosing screech, but the door slid up soundlessly. The room smelled of dust. Gríma inhaled it: it smelled of books. He was vaguely aware that it was strange that the door should be unlocked, but it didn’t really bother him right now. This was a library worth the name, and if there was one thing Gríma worshipped, books were it. He slunk quickly into the library and shut the door behind him. It closed just as it had opened, without a sound.

This is the library of Orthanc. Here, Curunír the wise has had plenty of time to collect scripts from near and afar. Descriptions of faraway lands are here to be found, for Curunír has wandered far and wide. Scripts of magic, scrolls of both truth and myth... Many books of the mythical rings, of Gwaith-i-Midan, the elven smiths, and of Sauron himself. But history is not Curunír’s specialty, in such matters has he often made his way to Gondor, to the archives of Lord Denethor. The Steward knows not that the one he welcomes as a friend might be his worst enemy. Nor does he know that one he has turned away is now clandestinely acting in Orthanc.

Gríma stood in the library, heart pounding. It was dark, the shutters were closed, but he dared not open them for the risk of discovery. These windows were placed just above the balcony where Saruman at this very moment did his best to entice his visitors. No, he’d better not disturb. Only have a look around up here, silent and unnoticed. He walked slowly among the bookshelves. The room was large, formed as half a circle. The walls were made of the same kind of black stone as the rest of Orthanc, but here and there silvery ornaments were inserted in the wall, truly exquisite decorations. Gríma wondered briefly whether this room had served as a throne-hall in the past, or if it might have been the chambers of someone of great importance. He had seen nothing like it in the other parts of the tower. The ornaments were clearly visible even though the room was filled with shadow; shimmering silver wyrms coiling over the walls. Gríma resisted the urge to reach out and touch them, to let his fingers follow their complicated pattern over the cold stone. Later, he told himself. There will be plenty of time for that later. He turned back to the books. One can carry no treasure greater than that of great knowledge, and to stand among the scrolls, knowing they had so many tales to tell, made Gríma feel great reverence. He was a man who thought few things worthy of respect, and even fewer of worship. He despised the custom of preserving inherited gems; a sword would serve just as good, no matter whose grandfather it had once belonged to. The Rohirrim, however, were true masters of worshipping rusty old weapons, thought Gríma contemptuously. But books… ah. Now, that was something completely different. His heart had stilled, but he could feel his cheeks heating. All this knowledge! He took a few more steps into the room.

At a pillar in the library lies Orthanc’s greatest treasure. It is truly a mighty thing, perhaps even more than just a thing; for magical items have a tendency to develop something close to a… consciousness, if one so will. The treasure of Orthanc lies there. Not resting, certainly not dead. It waits not, since waiting would imply expectation, and this thing expects nothing. It lies… dormant.

Gríma’s eyes were drawn to the pillar, and to the black orb that lay upon it. The Palantír, the seeing stone. Certainty ran down his spine as would cold water, and he knew that he was here for its sake, for the Palantír. Shuddering, he tried to get himself together. No, he would have naught to do with that. Saruman would be furious if he were to give it even the slightest touch.

_The wizard would be furious, would he as much as find you here_ , came the thought.

“I… he’ll never know, I’m not touching anything,” Gríma mumbled. But even as he spoke, he found himself taking several steps closer to the Palantír. As he gazed into it, he felt fear, yes, but he was at the same time fascinated and immensely curious. Lifting his hand slowly, he regarded the black stone. So mighty, yet so impassive to anything surrounding it.

“What would happen if I were to touch it?” he whispered now, eyes fixed upon the stone. Deep inside it, he thought he could see a light, but it might just have been a reflection.

_It is a tool, it obeys anyone who knows how to control it_ , he thought… or did he? He had not known any such thing about the seeing stone before now.

“Anyone?”

_Who knows how to control it_.

Gríma shook his head again, and to his own surprise found that he had now raised both his hands as if preparing to lift the orb from its pillar. Watching his hands, he felt again that strange sensation, as if he was watching them from a great distance. His eyes went back to the Palantír.  

“This thing… it could gain me power. I could rule…” he spoke dreamingly, feeling strangely elated.

_Rule and punish_.

“Yes, punish my enemies, gain influence… I could even bind Éowyn to me!”

_Bind, and be bound…_

The Palantír seemed to glow softly, but he still couldn’t tell whether the light was real or if he had imagined it. “I could build a new power, had I fair Éowyn at my side as my queen! We could conquer new lands, I could crush Rohan under my heel!”

_Yes, crush those enemies who deceived you, punish them!_

“I will! I’ll get them all. Théoden, and that snotty whelp of his, I will get them!”

Oh, the stone was positively glowing now, no doubt about it. A ring of fire emerged through the black depths, burning brighter now, brighter…

“Éomer, yes, and…”

_and Saruman._

“And all of cursed Rohan!”

_Saruman_.

“Rohan, and… Saruman?” Gríma hesitated. He felt just as if he was about to wake up from a strange dream.

_Crush and punish those who failed you!_ He watched his hands as they seemed to be moving of their own accord, closer and closer to the Palantír. He made an effort to clear his mind.

_Everyone who has taken advantage of you, as did Saruman!_

“Taken advantage…” muttered Gríma. Something was not right.

_Saruman's footman, Saruman's messenger. Ah, but with the power in your hands, what would you do? Can the dog not bite the master that beats it? What will the utilized messenger do, when the stone of power lies in his hands?_

“Punish…”

_Yes?_

Suddenly furious, Gríma grabbed the Palantír and lifted it. It pulsated now with fire from within, but it was cool to the touch, and heavy. The light reflected in his wild gaze as he turned to the window.

“Crush my enemies, punish the one who dared to abuse me,” he snarled with conviction as he carefully secured the stone under his arm and moved to open the shutters. But as light flowed into the library he stopped, shadowing his eyes. He wondered just how this punishment was to be arranged. A moment ago, he had felt strong and certain, in possession of the seeing stone of power. What could possibly go wrong? And yet… Gríma opened the window and looked out. The view added to his doubt, for beneath him stood not one, but several enemies. And he was no longer certain that Saruman was the one he ought to take revenge on first. Down on the ground stood Gandalf, who had unmasked him in Edoras and overthrown all of his grandiose plans. There was Théoden, that drooling fool – well, that’s what he _had_ been, and Saruman on his balcony…

_Crush him!_

Still, Gríma hesitated. Saruman's promises had been generous, after all. And the reward he had been offered...

_Fair promises, indeed, but did he ever plan to fulfil them? In the end, what reward did he give his faithful servant? None but lashes and blows, footman, lashes and blows!_

Gríma raised the seeing stone over his head. His arms seemed to have a will of their own now. The orb was still cool, in stark contrast to the glowing light inside. Its power had been revealed; the stone was _awake_. He could hear only fragments of what was spoken on the ground. Blood roaring in his ears, he felt drunken. He made out some words;

“Black hands reaching out to get you, Saruman!”

Black hands, Gríma thought. Well, perhaps that was true. He had dug into far too many foul matters to be able to claim otherwise. His gaze went back to the Palantír. It glowed at him, waiting. Yes. It did glow, with all that power that had belonged to Saruman...

“But now, that power is mine,” he hissed. His breath was shallow, the glow from the orb shone in his eyes. He looked down at Saruman, carefully taking aim.

In that very moment came a scream from below, and a blinding white light shone, turning the window into a rectangle burning bright. Gríma lost both his breath and his hold of the Palantír as he threw an arm up to protect his eyes, toppling back into the room. He lost his foothold as he stumbled and ended up in a heap beside the pillar upon which the Palantír had rested. He remained there, it seemed, for an eternity. The shock had exhausted him, and he felt as if something had left him. It might have been hope. It might have been courage. It might have been... something else. He started to come to his senses mere moments before Saruman entered the room. Gríma, terrified, had time to get a confirming glimpse of the empty pillar before Saruman saw it. And then the wizard looked at Gríma, who swallowed. As the Istarí let his gaze pierce the mind of his disobedient servant, he hissed;

“You… you little _worm_!”

Imaén pulled impatiently at the horse’s reins. She was upset, as she thought that all her plans had failed. And as she contemplated them again in the light of new events, they did seem childish to her, truly piteous. Whom, indeed, did she think she was? Trying to dispose of Saruman like that, how naïve! She was only vaguely aware of what Gandalf had done, as her mind had been busy, trying to work at Gríma’s. This affair had not turned out as smooth or simple as she had imagined it would. And now, she had qualms about her actions. She tried to shake off the remorse, thinking it bothersome. And she told herself, perhaps it was all for the best. He could not have held it any longer, less Sauron would have noticed him and made him his own. That was not a mind Imaén wished to argue with. Not in any way. She risked a glance over her shoulder as she got into the saddle. No pursuers were in sight, everything seemed quiet around the tower of Orthanc. Imaén shook her head, attempting to clear her mind. She kept getting the feeling that she was fleeing. This was not exactly encouraging, from what would she be fleeing? Taking a deep breath, Imaén decided that it was merely a side effect of tension, nothing else. She should head for Gondor as quickly as possible. Sauron would without doubt soon hear tidings of what had happened in Isengard, and with no support in the west, he was bound to act soon. Minas Tirith was a very likely target for such a strike, the stronghold designed to protect Middle Earth from Mordor. Yes, surely, this would be the first place to be attacked. And if it wasn’t, the fortress of Gondor was strong, and could hold for months if necessary. It would probably be sealed as a precautionary measure. Gondor would be her best option of refuge. It was all perfectly logical, thought Imaén. Yet, she wondered vaguely why exactly she felt the need to go there. None of her reasons seemed fully satisfactory, but this one was the best so far. Imaén sighed. Somewhere deep inside, she knew she was repressing her emotions. On the surface, she tried her best to deny it. She was about to ride off, when suddenly a shriek reached her ear. It was a shrill cry from Orthanc, cut of as suddenly as it had begun.

Imaén shivered. It was as if her conscience had slapped her. Hard. This cry, that man… Imaén bit her lip and cut the thought short. There would be wounded in Minas Thirith. There would be work for her in this… refuge.

“One must learn to… prioritize,” she mumbled. Abruptly, she turned her horse from Orthanc and urged it into a gallop. Her eyes were hard but through her mind echoed, again and again, a shrill cry that was suddenly cut off. She bit her lip harder, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. The pain was petty, compared to the one echoing inside her.

There is no fortress, however huge or strong, there is no wall, however high or steep, that can keep out the voice of conscience.


	8. Chapter 8

Orthanc, a tower built out of black stone and darkness. Pointing like a burned finger towards the shy, it casts its shadow heavily on the ground.

And yet, from the roof of Orthanc, the stars shone brighter than he had ever seen them before. Many a night he would come up here, searching the cool breeze of the night and the company of the stars. He had always looked to them for comfort, walking the empty streets of Edoras in the clear nights of winter or from his chamber, standing by the open window. From the rooftop of Orthanc, he felt closer to them than ever. Standing up here, he thought the Ents looked like wandering bushes, small and unimportant. Had things been different, he would perhaps have found them amusing. Oh, had things only been different.

At times, his mind would wander back to Rohan and to the Golden Hall, but he tried hard not to remember the lady Éowyn. He did not wish to think of her. He did not wish to think at all, but found it hard not to; wandering the stairs and dark halls of Orthanc reminded too much of his nocturnal activities in Edoras. The roof was better, then. He could sit up there for hours, until his legs went stiff or the chill drove him back inside. Sometimes, he would stay until dawn, watch the sun spread out over the plains and turn them golden, like honey. But with sunrise always came a strange feeling that made him uneasy. Perhaps it was nothing but the morning breeze, but he somehow doubted it. He did not see much of the wizard, Saruman kept to himself. After the outburst of fury in the library, Saruman all but ignored his servant, and Gríma thought this just as well. He certainly didn’t hope for any further confrontations of that sort. Saruman seemed to avoid the library since that day. Gríma hadn’t been bold enough to go back there, either. He wanted to, but thought it would hardly improve his situation, was he to try. On the other hand, he mused, perhaps it couldn’t worsen the situation. No matter what he did, Orthanc was in deadlock, and rules seemed to have lost their meaning. He had tried to wrap his mind around what had actually happened in the library: time and time again had he recalled the situation for his inner eye, turning it in search of new angles. He wanted to find out what, and more importantly, why. But the images were dim. As he reached out to put them to order they would slip away, taunting him just out of reach and he never got closer to an explanation for his actions. Annoyed, he’d push away all those cloudy remembrances, but they kept creeping back, demanding his attention. And again and again he’d hide from them, seeking out the frosty skies of night for a moment of peace. He was still on the run, it seemed, ever since that day he rode from Edoras and left Rohan behind. He thought that he must have left his dignity behind there, as well.

Bitterness gnawed him. As did hunger, the main food-supplies of Isengard had not been within the tower. They had been stored outside, and had therefore been washed away by the furious Isen. By now, the water had gone, and left behind a miserable slush. It was hard to believe that he had been forced to swim through it to get here. Not that he wished to remember that. However, this left them with what little food had been in the actual tower when the Ents had arrived. There was an old cooking room in the lower parts of Orthanc, and it did have a hearth. But it had been out of use for quite some time, as most of the food had been prepared by the servants in kitchens that had been connected to the extern supplies. Therefore, this place hardly had any utensils for cooking. Gríma had never before had to prepare a meal for himself, and he found cookery an art quite difficult to master, at least with the lack of proper tools. There was still wood, however, and a well from which he could draw water. It had most likely been out of use for years, but he found that the water was still clean enough to drink. He had retrieved some meal and grain that had been left in the tower, and with that he managed to make some kind of porridge, but as the days went by, it would more often resemble soup. It did not taste well, as he had no salt nor herbs to add for flavour, but it would settle in his belly like a clump and ease the worst hunger. He didn’t know when Saruman ate, or what. The wizard did not ask for Gríma’s gruels, but if he had food of his own, he must have hidden it well within his own quarters. Gríma had searched high and low for possible hideouts where food might be stored, but had come up with nothing. Still, he assumed that the wizard must eat.

Orthanc was indeed a grand building, but even so, they could not avoid one another forever. One evening, Gríma had found Saruman standing in the doorway of the cooking room, watching him. Gríma had been unpleasantly surprised, wondering whether the wizard would request his service or had come to question him further, but Saruman had merely stared blankly at him before he turned on his heal and left, much to Gríma’s relief. He used to dine late, before he went out to the roof, to the stars. This night, as he stepped out to the dark, he realized that he was not alone. Saruman stood there, gazing into the night. Gríma hesitated, half bound on quietly leaving and perhaps come back later. Then, he decided against it and opted to settle down on the other side of the roof. As he started to walk, Saruman tuned towards him. Gríma had thought for sure that he had moved without a sound. He stood stiff as he awaited the wizard’s next move. Saruman looked absently at his servant, as if had he been lost in deep thoughts. What those thoughts might have been, none could guess, the wizard’s dark eyes gave nothing away.

“Oh,” he said eventually, “It’s you.”

Gríma bowed his head slightly to confirm that he was listening. Saruman nodded coldly in return, but said no more. He just stood there, silently contemplating the man before him. Eventually, Gríma grew uneasy and felt an urge to break the silence.

“One can see the stars from up here,” he tried. He wished Saruman would leave him alone up here in the silence of night.

_Oh, but you are alone…_ Gríma shuddered. An unpleasant memory. Still, nothing more than that.

“The stars? Well yes, I suppouse one can,” said Saruman.

Gríma didn’t think he would be getting any further. Still, Saruman watched him carefully. Then the wizard said; “Many a thing can be learned from the stars, for one who knows how to read them.”

“Is that so?” Gríma was becoming curious, against his will. “And what is to be read in the stars tonight?”

“That the night will be cold,” said Saruman shortly. He gathered his robes and swept past his servant down the stairs.

Gríma was relieved to see him go, yet he wondered what it was he had said to displease Saruman. He sat down by the balustrade, pulled his cloak around him and looked up at the nightly sky. The night did indeed turn out cold. 

The following evening, lights were on in the library. Gríma lingered outside, not sure whether or not he should enter. But curiosity overpowered wariness once again, and he opened the door. Saruman was seated with his back towards him, by a heavy oak-table in the centre of the room. He turned his head slightly as Gríma entered. Gríma resisted an impulse to peer towards the empty pillar on his right, reminding himself that there was nothing to be seen. Saruman turned his attention back at the scrolls at the table, seemingly not paying Gríma’s presence any attention. However, Gríma felt watched as he moved on into the room. He paused in front of a large bookshelf filled with scrolls from foreign lands, absent-mindedly picking one up to look at it whilst trying to figure out what Saruman was doing behind his back. As he heard the wizard’s voice in his ear, he dropped the scroll in surprise. Gríma was known for his ability to move silently, but it would seem Saruman was once again the master.

“Ah,” said the wizard, “the scrolls from east.

Gríma swallowed nervously, but strived to act unconcerned as he forced himself to calmly pick the scroll from the floor. Inwardly, he scolded himself for being so easily startled. In an attempt to cover his unease, he said;

“So you have travelled eastwards, my Lord?”

Saruman gave a sly smile, almost resembling humour. “Why, yes indeed. I have travelled to the east, and yet further. I’m much surprised though, that you do not already know this. You are known for sniffing out and poking into all scraps of information. That is to say, you _were_. Is that not so?”

Gríma huffed indignantly. “I have no wish to sniff or poke, _my Lord_ , do keep your background to yourself if it so pleases you.”

“So short-tempered, Wormtongue, so touchy,” Saruman mocked, a dry smile still on his lips.

Gríma couldn’t quite make sense of the situation. Did the wizard wish to make light conversation all of the sudden, or was this merely a way to taunt him? He remained silent, as Saruman continued:

“It’s hardly a secret that I have travelled far and wide. I have gathered these here texts, and far more knowledge still from all over Middle-Earth. I went as far as Lake Rhûn…”

“Claivón,” Gríma interrupted, wishing instantly he had not. Where had that name come from?

“So it’s called by those who live there,” said Saruman and watched his servant curiously. “Have you perhaps ventured that far yourself?”

“No,” replied Gríma, thinking he should indeed try to follow an old advice and keep his tongue behind his teeth. He had never had the habit of letting his words fly out without thought, and saw no reason to pick it up now. Where had he heard that name? “I must have heard it mentioned,” he mumbled.

“Is that so?” Saruman looked doubtful, but carried on; “Well, the locals do trade with other people. The elves, for instance. I suppouse a well-informed traveller might hear words about them every now and then.”

Gríma gave a small but relieved sigh, grateful that he would not have to explain himself further.

“I went there in the company of Pallando and Alatar,” the wizard continued, thoughtfully. “But they did not join me as I went back.”

“My Lord? With whom, did you say?” Gríma was glad at this new turn of the conversation.

“Oh, two of my associates. Fellow wizards. We headed east together, and made it as far as the southern shores of Lake Claivón…” Saruman went silent.

“And what happened there?” Gríma dared to ask.

“We met with the people of the woods, of course. The people of Clairion,” Saruman snapped. He seemed to be about to lose his patience, but Gríma insisted;

“So there are people? In the forest? But what do they live off?”

“What do they live off? Squirrels, for all I know,” Saruman snorted, “I was never there to see for myself.”

Gríma wasn’t sure how he could tempt the wizard into telling more. Or, for the matter, why he was so anxious to hear more. Saruman didn’t seem too willing to speak more now. Gríma was not eager to challenge the wizard’s foul temper by pushing him further, yet, he found that he really wanted to know more.

“What about your company” he persisted, “did they go on?”

“No. Yes. I presume that they did”, said Saruman, turning his back on Gríma as he made for his desk. As he settled down, he added, “Now, may I have some peace? I have work to do.”

Gríma bowed lightly and left the library. He didn’t dare trying his luck more tonight. The knowledge he’d gained was, he knew, important, but he was not sure wherein the importance lay. What he did know was that the wizard was rather capricious; he must tread carefully if he wished to know more about… whatever it was that had seemed so important.

After that night, the candles in the library were often lit. Saruman would now spend most of his time here, ignoring Gríma’s presence when he chose to enter, yet never sending him away. Perceiving this as unspoken permission, Gríma would bury himself in the old texts rather than seeking solace from the cold stars. He was grateful that he had been sent to Gondor for training, for it was unusual that men of Rohan knew to read or write. These skills had been a splendid qualification when he got into the service of Théoden King, since he, unlike most of his precursors, had considered the written tongue a great resource. Had he but chosen another man of words as his counsellor, writing may have had a great breakthrough in Rohan. As it now was, it had come to be viewed with all the more suspicion.

Gríma found himself actually looking forward to the nights he and Saruman would wake through in the library. It was a relief, that small candlelight in the vast shadows of Orthanc. And, perhaps more importantly, it was a company of sorts. Even though Gríma would be the last one to admit that he needed it. He hoped that Saruman would tell him more about his journeys, although he still couldn’t puzzle out why the stories of Rhûn thrilled him so. He had heard of foreign lands before, but never had the stories caught his attention like this. In the end, he decided that his interest must have come upon him because he was bored. He had never been idle for this long, and the books in the library made for a good distraction, as did the wizard’s tales. This, he told himself, was why he kept returning to the library, riffling through the pages of old chronicles, in search of more knowledge of the east.

Sometimes Saruman would speak to him, though most often he would not. But spoken tales differ much from brief notes recorded in old scrolls. Tell me a story, a child might pray, tell me of a memory! Gríma had acquired the written language as a young man, had tamed the letters and made them his own. Even so, he was deeply rooted in the old tradition of spoken narration that was so vital to the culture of Rohan. Most knowledge and experience was shared verbally, to be stored in memory and retold in due time. Perhaps this was the reason why he was so eager to listen to the wizard’s tales, as it brought back memories of those shared moments in Edoras, with the bard singing away through a cold winter’s night while embers glowed red on the hearth. Those moments may not have been many, but they had been there. And before that, there had once been kinship. Gríma was a man who was prone to forget that he had once enjoyed such solidarity. Hardened by the life he had chosen for himself, he preferred to repress his emotions, closing himself off. There were people who despised him, and he had thought he might as well make their effort worthwhile. If they would not love him, they would grow to fear him, and they would fear the power that he represented. He had become quite successful at invoking fear. But deep inside, he longed for affection, and pitied himself when it dawned on him that the one from whom he so eagerly sought sympathy would never spare such for a being like him.

As his longing for stories grew, he would get bold enough to coax the wizard into narrating mood by means of gentle flattery. It was an old game, but sometimes Saruman would play along. Gríma traced the patterns of the silvery ornaments on the wall. He enjoyed the cold, smooth sensation as his fingertips followed the twirls. He had been told that this ancient handicraft was Númenorian. The noble kings of old had ordered these exclusive decorations, and they had withstood time while Númenor fell. Sometimes, when he thought himself out of sight, he would rest his forehead against the wall and close his eyes in delight as the exquisite silver greeted him with its chill. Ancient, yet timeless. Tell me a story…

“Did Pallando and Alatar stay in Rhûn?”

“Well, for some time, I presume.” Saruman was seated at the heavy table, maps and scrolls scattered all over it, but he gazed unseeingly into mid-air. Gríma went on;

“But they never returned?”

“Hm? No, I believe they planned to go on, much further than Rhûn. I know naught of what happened to them.”

Since the wizard clearly was in no talking mood, Gríma remained silent. He wondered what it was Saruman was planning, hunched over his maps of areas Gríma had never heard mentioned. The wizard seemed more absent-minded of late, but perhaps it was only a manifestation of suspense. None of them knew for how long they would have to remain imprisoned, whether they would ever be allowed to leave or if the Ents would let them starve to death. The uncertainty would break them both eventually, Gríma thought. If they were let go, what land could possibly welcome them? As for himself, he wondered for how much longer Saruman could keep his suppressed anger in check before he had another outburst regarding the Palantír. The wizard had not mentioned it again since the day it was lost, had in fact not seemed interested in excuses or explanations. And Gríma had found, as he retreated to tend his bruises, that he had none to offer. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to worry more about the incident, but he doubted this was the case. Saruman was running out of patience. Unwilling to answer any questions, he wished to brood over his maps in solitude.

To be in Orthanc was to be caught in restrained tension and anger, built around the no longer present thing which had rested on that now empty pillar in the library. It was a suspense that could not hold for much longer; it would have to burst. And one day, Saruman stepped out on the balcony and spoke to the Ents. 


	9. Chapter 9

Fortunate be the one who’ll get through the borders of Gondor in bad times. Fortune truly shines on one who is granted passage through Rammas Echor, the outer boundary wall, for its guards are both watchful and proud. They would not hesitate to turn a stranger aside for fear they might be an enemy. Luckily, Imaén of Claivón has donned a robe of Gondorian cut, and she is short of stature and slender enough to pass for a much younger girl in the dark. Some acting skills had been needed; a faltering voice will conceal a strange accent, especially if the speech is interrupted by the occasional sob. After a murmured counsel they had let her through, with strict orders to go straight home to the troubled father she had invented, and who was allegedly awaiting her. Imaén knew that luck can only last for so long, and had promptly ridden on towards the White city, cowl up against the wind and curious eyes. The city was not yet under siege when she arrived, but it would be before long.  

Imaén felt hope and concern both, when news of Gandalf’s arrival reached her ear. The first for the sake of the city, for Gandalf Stormcrow’s presence raised the courage of many. The latter, however, she felt for her own sake. She wondered whether the wizard might suspect that someone had interfered in that business with the Palantír, and as she felt rather embarrassed about the whole thing, she would rather not risk being held accountable for her high-handed actions. Attempting to destroy one of the Istari by harming him physically had been unsophisticated, to say the least; and to put such a rare and powerful object at risk of damage was highly irresponsible. Not to mention possessing someone’s mind in order to manipulate them, this was really not acceptable. Imaén knew this, however hard she had tried to justify her actions. Magic of mind must be used with care, never to disturb or damage. This too, she knew, and it added to her shame that she had been negligent also with this: the spell had not been as through as she had believed it to be. She had no way of knowing if, or how much, the man could remember. This troubled her, since it meant she would have to find him and try to lift the enchantment. A spell that merely casts shadow over the mind could cause more damage than one that obscures it completely, since memories of times past can rise without warning, pushing present events aside, causing the victim to question what is real and what is not. In due time, such a thing will surely drive them mad. If he was still alive, she must find him and attempt to heal the harm she had caused. If she survived this war, she would.   

Questions of life and death were painfully present to her these days. She had offered her services at the Houses of Healing, since she had knowledge of both wounds and medicine. Perhaps, her conscience taunted her, you are trying to repay what you have violated; your calling as a healer. But Imaén was not fond of listening to her conscience, and sought instead to ease her guilt by working hard, attending to wounds and applying bandages to the victims of war. Wearing the customary colours of Gondor, and with a kerchief to hide her hair, the tight-lipped young woman was taken for a widow. She willingly played the part as it made for a good excuse not to flee the city along with the children and elderly. Despite her harsh gaze and sullen manners, she had strong, caring hands and was therefore welcomed among the healers.

Minas Tirith will very soon need every healer there is, for darkness has fallen. The shadow of Mordor lies over the city and there will be dawn no more. The darkness weighs heavy on the mind, stealing the courage of men and women both. Tidings came that the enemy was at Osiligath, and shortly thereafter it was said that the wall had fallen. Imaén watched and worried along with the others, and towards morning came truckloads of wounded to confirm the rumours. The crisp scent of potions mixed with the stench of decayed wounds, the soldiers’ groans would never cease. There was no time for rest, she gulped down a mouthful of bread and some water before she hurried on to the next stretcher. She was exhausted, and when a man died from her that evening, despite her having done all she could to save his life, Imaén was close to tears. She wanted to scream out at this terrible torture and death, but forced down her despair instead, adjusting her kerchief with trembling hands. Another dying man would need her care.  

Gondor’s storehouse of medicinal plants was nearly empty. Imaén had started to administer herbs and preparations that she had carried in her saddle bags, but she knew they wouldn’t last long, either. Saving the stronger preparations for the most seriously injured, she would dilute potions from the milder plants as much as could be done without the loss of their analgesic effects. When she finally lay down on a spare bed, the cries of the wounded followed her into her dreams. Worst was the memory of a young man’s scream when she had to cut loose an arrow that had burrowed deep into his shoulder. In the dream, the cry echoed even shriller, a drawn-out scream that was suddenly cut off... 

She woke abruptly. With pounding heart, she stepped out of bed and stood there, listening into the night. But there was nothing to be heard except the muffled sound of the wounded on the other side of the wall. With a deep sigh, she took a candle and went to check on the wounded, since she could not make herself go back to sleep. She put cool compresses on feverish foreheads and forced a few drops of water between the cracked lips of men who would surely be dead by morning. Eventually, she collapsed at a table. Through the window, she could see the bleak gray that testified the break of day. A new day, with new injuries to see to. At that thought, Imaén laid her head down in her arms and cried. The woman Ioreth, oldest among the ones serving in the Houses of Healing found her like that, when she came to attend to the wounded. She patted the young woman on her arm, saying nothing to the tear-stained cheeks. It was a time for crying, she thought, though tears may also heal. With her strong, sinewy hands, Ioreth stroked the younger woman’s cheek and sent her off to bed. And as the city awoke and vicious winds blew around its walls, Imaén finally found rest.

When next she woke it was noon, and despairing cries echoed through the city. The Orcs' atrocity to throw their enemies severed heads over the city walls had reached the desired effect. Fear is indeed a powerful weapon, something Imaén wished she hadn’t been reminded of. Had she had time, she would gladly have joined those who hurled curses upon Mordor troops from the walls. As it was, she had to make do with caring for injured, but rage was burning in her eyes, as well as in the other healers’. There was talk of Gandalf taking command of the city's defences, and in Imaén’s heart as well as in others’ rose hope, only to sink again when the siege towers were sent rolling in the middle of the night. Mordor was advancing at full strength: with rumbling drums they went to battle. The horrors Minas Tirith experienced that night was to be breeding ground for many a bad dream, even brave warriors would wake up screaming and bathed in cold sweat in the months to come. In the Houses of Healing they sought companionship and solace in each other in this dark hour that could very well be the last, while the battering rams of Mordor shook the city.

However, in the darkest hour, those who think themselves sound and wise would do good to remember the hope possessed by fools and children. For in this darkest of times, a rooster crowed in the city. Unconcerned about war and horror crowed that rooster, and at last came morning with precious dawn. Yes, praise the rooster, and praise the tones that rise to answer it from afar: the horns and trumpets sound loud and clear. From the north, the riders of Rohan come to the rescue.

Before the last major battle, the hope in the hearts of men was lit again. They fought well, and they got their victory, although it seemed costly for the ones who worked in the Houses of Healing. Victory was insipid when considering the battle for life that many men still had to endure in a hospital bed. Many a man and one woman, Imaén noted. She did not envy the brave one who had ridden to war for her country when she saw her lying on what was likely her deathbed. Nazgûl’s bane, Eowyn of Rohan. Imaén watched her sickly gray visage and wondered what had driven this woman to war, but found that she could do nothing for her. It was, as would later be sung, the King himself who healed the fair princess, but Imaén never got to witness it. However, she did catch a glimpse of the proud maiden again before she left Gondor. It was on the very day the joyous news came that Mordor fallen at last, that she saw the princess Eowyn standing on the city wall together with lord Faramir the Steward. Imaén, who had been out for a breath of air, stopped to watch them. Young and serious were they, and they had both fought honourably on the Pelennor plains. Imaén thought them a beautiful couple. Their hair, his dark, her light, mixed in the wind as he pressed a kiss on her forehead. Imaén smiled and hurried on to her duties.

She left Gondor a clear morning in early April. She would have loved to stay and see the coronation, but evil dreams and bad conscience had done their part to remind her of the path she must walk. That the King had turned out to be the man she had glimpsed at Isengard: the man whose powerful charisma had startled her, was almost a relief. Come what may, she thought, Gondor now had a strong and steadfast king to bring them peace and good times. Another reason for her somewhat precipitous departure was the Wizard, Gandalf. She had glimpsed him in the Houses of Healing, and had managed to stay out of his way fairly well, but one evening she had almost collided with him in the doorway. The look he had given her had been so piercingly curious that she had wondered what he really knew. Apologetically, she had stepped aside, and he had moved on without addressing her, but the meeting had somehow brought unease and made her even more restless. She must leave to fulfil her task, and she must leave soon. Only later would she come to ask herself why she had not asked the Istari for help, or at least tried to gain access to the archive for which she’d once come here, for which’s sake she had left her home in her thirst for knowledge. The answer, she realized with some surprise, was that it no longer seemed to her as important or as desirable. Surely, knowledge is power. But power, like happiness, is a fleeting thing, and not something one should solely rely on. And with new perspectives follows the will and the power to... make new priorities.

That day she rode far, and in the evening made camp by a sparkling brook. When she’d taken care of her steed she undressed, and in the peaceful evening she washed away the horrors of war and grief in the clear running water. Cold and fresh, it poured around her hands, and for the first time in many days she laughed out loud and sang of joy. In the darkness of early spring she sat by the campfire and stared into the embers. Time now to look ahead, time to search. No portent nor vision came to her mind by the fire that night, but she could feel that he was alive, and those who seek shall find. That night in the forest Imaén slept quiet, undisturbed by dreams.

And far from there, by another campfire, a tormented man wraps his ragged cloak tightly around him. High above them both, the stars shine bright. It is early spring after the War of the Ring, the end of the Third Age of Middle Earth is now approaching.


	10. Chapter 10

Once, he was a man. What he had become, he hardly even knew any more, for his mind was warped of hunger and mental exertion. The times when his thoughts were unclouded were few and disjointed, but clear moments still came. He wished then that they wouldn’t, for it was in those moments that he could see himself in the light of what he once was. This crawling, creeping shadow that half-heartedly clung on to life could be scolded for many a name, but could hardly be called a man anymore, he thought. To still be aware of where he had come from and just how far he had descended was the hardest thing he had to endure; worse than the physical pain as he writhed inside from humiliation and shame at every kick, every stroke, every invective. Worm he had become, of Gríma son of Gálmód remained but a memory.

Ever since the day they escaped Isengard had he heeled Saruman like a dog, hoping that the sorcerer’s patronage would give him free passage and lead him far away from Rohan. And they had indeed travelled far, but the temporary truce that had reigned while they were trapped in Orthanc was over. Saruman set his Worm to do the most thankless tasks, punishing him if the result was not to his satisfaction. The dagger that had once been a mighty man’s pride and ornament was now a tainted gear, with an edge that had tasted far too much blood. Half mad with hunger and pain, Saruman’s Worm would soon do whatever his master asked, unable to leave him. For every atrocity his shame grew, along with the conviction that no living creature would ever offer him kindness or protection, such as he was now become. And so, subdued and broken, Saruman’s Worm remained at his master’s side. Soon, he no longer questioned the Wizard’s plans or doings. Thus was he when they finally reached the Shire, home of the hobbits.

It had taken Imaén a long time to find the way. The link she had so carefully woven within a deserter’s mind had filled her with remorse, and the only way to heal the damage she had done was to find him and lift the sorcery that had granted her a door into his mind. Following the trail of such a link was usually not a difficult task; the minds involved in such a spell are connected. For Imaén’s inner sight it manifested like a taut silver wire that stretched out towards the man she sought. If she concentrated, she could clearly feel it pulling her closer to her target. He seemed to be headed away from her, but this didn’t trouble Imaén at first. The distance barely increased from one day to another, moreover she was travelling on horseback and was able to cover considerable distances by each day of travel. But as time passed, the track got more curious. Some days it was as if the thread in her mind hung limply, making it hard for her to determine in which direction it was going. Gradually the track became weaker and weaker, though it should have been the other way around. The closer the target, the stronger the band should become, and Imaén began to fear that the damage she had caused the man had already gone too far. Some days the track was clear and pulsating, on other days she lost it completely and had to trust her gut feeling when choosing which way to take. But then, just as she’d almost given up hope, the track brought her toward more populated areas, and rumours of stranger’s rampage could bring her back on track. On the day when Imaén approached Hobbiton the silver wire only pulsated in short glimpses.

She had heard what rumour said about what went on in the Shire, but to see it with her own eyes was worse. Imaén cursed between gritted teeth, remembering well the easy-going people she had seen at the gates of Isengard. Their kinsmen were, however, not so easy-going anymore. As abscesses in the landscape sat the crude buildings constructed for packaging and export of tobacco and groceries, and the feral men who’d put the hobbits to work made Imaén boil as she recalled the courage she had formerly associated with this people. A courage which they should have been allowed to keep, living in peace. She had, as was her custom, found a reasonably safe vantage point in a high location of woodland. She had left her horse on a farm whose inhabitants seemed to know the difference between food and labour, and she was pretty sure it would be safe there for now. She made herself a small nest in a tree with dense branches, and with a rope tethered to her belt, she could even doze off under the cover of darkness. An elf would hardly have needed such security measures, but Imaén took no chances. As she watched the course of events in Hobbiton, she was ever the spy, and she knew well to avoid the wild men who stood guard.

Saruman had taken the Shire. Whatever the wizard’s motives were, Imaén could only guess, and what she might do about it was not easy to figure out. To approach Saruman, unnoticed, and somehow neutralize him was out of the question. A human who was not one of Saruman’s minions would incur immediate attention. And the gift of speech is wasted on those who do not have the gift of listening; Saruman's guards would not be interested in her words. Imaén realized her limitations. She must concentrate on the task for which she’d come here, seeking to break the spell she had cast on the man called Wormtongue.

He did not seem to be easily accessible either, thought Imaén. Although he appeared to be neither prisoner nor of great value to the wizard, he was rarely seen except in Saruman’s company. Imaén ventured sneaking and scouting on the outskirts of the village, in the early dawn or dusk when she could both see and hide herself in the gray shadows. She watched, and she was tormented by what she saw. The man she had met in the forest was now bent and distorted, with an absent expression, as if he no longer saw or was truly aware of where he was. The few times she saw him like that, Imaén could no longer feel the bond between them. At other times he looked awake, on these occasions his expression was either terrified or one bowed deeply in shame, and she could clearly feel thoughts and emotions pulse through the band she’d woven. A deep sadness welled up within Imaén, as she realized it might already be too late for him to be healed. Everything he’d owned, everything he was had been taken away from him, even his name. Anger mixed with sorrow, and Imaén reminded herself that she still had to try, that the crimes committed here were not solely of her making. The former Istari had big part in this iniquity. She also grieved the Great White Wizard, because there was hardly any greatness left in him. But with what little power he still possessed, he spread terror and destruction, revelling in the fear of those he oppressed. His Worm was left powerless, and the only mercy left for Gríma was the deep unconsciousness of sleep, whenever it would spare him from his dreams.

Sleeping in a tree may be good enough for an elf, but eventually it depletes on a human. Imaén made ready a hidden camp further into the forest, in a clearing near a forest lake where the hobbits had been happy to bathe, play and pick wild berries before Saruman’s reign had taken over their world. Rarely did they come here now, those who were not prisoners or worked with the pipe weed had gone. Imaén mourned their fate, but was grateful to have this beautiful place for herself. Here, she was able to calm her thoughts and try to form a plan. The Worm must come out of the nest, it was impossible for her to reach him otherwise. But how?

One delight still remained for Saruman’s Worm, when the wizard sent him out into the night on various errands. These tasks were invariably dirty and ungrateful, but when he’d carried them out, he showed disobedience the only way he could by waiting long before returning to his master. Sometimes such disobedience was painfully reprimanded, depending on the wizard’s mood. But the Worm had found that it was well worth it, for a few hours of respite under the stars. High above him they shone clear as ever, cold and far away they looked down on him. The stars, he thought, did not judge him. As a child, he had heard stories about the different constellations, sometimes he tried to recall them. Other times, he thought of how he’d looked up at the night sky and how it had, wherever he was, however he had become, still always been the same. Sometimes again his mind wandered off, thinking about how the stars still shone over these places, over the people he had once known. Perhaps she, whom he’d once been promised, was standing under the same night sky, right now? Maybe the wind caressed her fair ringlets, the same wind that was now tugging at his own hair and cloak? If he ventured to send her a kiss, would the wind then carry it across the world to place it on her cheek? But no, this idea was too bold. To fantasize about what could have been benefited him little, for such thoughts invariably led to self-pity and bad dreams.

His mind was clear on nights when he watched the stars, but too seldom was he given the chance. Tonight, however, he had. After wiping yet another dirty deed from his dagger he stole from shadow to shadow until he reached the edge of the woods. He was usually able to find a good place here beneath the night sky, but this particular evening he found it difficult to settle down. He wandered aimlessly along the forest edge until he came across a small stream that trickled from the woods. Suddenly, he was seized by a desire to follow the creek to see its source. He hesitated. If he was to track the stream, he must go into the forest. He was ill at ease in the woods; trees darkened the road, things he could not see squeaked and rattled in the bushes and in addition, he could not see the stars. Hobbits and elves called the forests beautiful. As for himself, he considered them unpleasant. But here it was now, a little creek, a silvery thread that pulled and called to him. He wanted to follow it. Even if it meant that he had to enter the forest. Even if it meant that he would be gone so long that the wizard would be bound to punish him. And here, surprisingly, rose a grain of defiance and pride: Saruman’s Worm decided to defy his master and be gone for oh, so long this night.

It was a funny little stream. Here and there it took a sudden, impish turn and was not at all easy to follow. Gríma managed to get his feet wet both once and twice as he was looking for foothold among the wet, bulging rocks. Soon, he found the source, and he was disappointed that the trek had not been longer. But on the shores of the little lake where the creek ran up, the stars were clearly visible, and the forest seemed less frightening than he had imagined. He was beginning to feel rather pleased with his outing.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps made him aware that he was not alone. He turned hastily, hand on the dagger. From the shadows a woman emerged, short and slender. She let her cloak fall open and extended her hands, a sign that she was unarmed. He relaxed a little, but still watched her vigilantly. Something about her seemed familiar, but he could not recall that he had ever seen her before.

“Who are you?” he snapped.

The woman offered no response, but said instead; “You are the one they call Worm. Tell me, do you still remember your true name?”

The nickname slid off him. He had been called far worse, and rightfully so. But what did this stranger know of his real name?

“Answer my question,” he managed. “Who are you and what is your errand in this place?”

“My errand is you, son of Gálmód,” said Imaén, and saw his eyes widen in surprise. “You walk in shadows because I have wronged you. Let me repay my iniquity.”


	11. Chapter 11

A man and a woman, standing in a forest at night. Autumn is yet to come, but there is a chill in the air. The stars gaze down on them. To the stars, they may seem small and insignificant, and perhaps they are. But what will be unfolding this night is neither small or insignificant, it is the expiation of a crime and it must be preceded by an explanation. And how does one explain such a thing?

Imaén of Clairion has thought long and hard on this. And she has found that the time for sweet words and deception is past. She narrates of their meeting on the night when the forest marched. She tells about her plan and of her deed. She speaks calmly, but her heart beats hard in her chest, for she is expecting an outburst of anger at any time. She knows that the man in front of her could be dangerous, unpredictable. He is no longer driven by logic and thoughtful actions. The Gríma she met in Rohan might not have come at her with a dagger at the ready, but as he now is ... who knows? She talks and she reassures him through the bond between them. He’s now close enough to make her believe herself capable of restraining him through the power of mind, if only the bond will hold.

And it seemed to hold steady. The sudden mist of insanity that she expected might come over him stayed absent. Different expressions passed his face, but not the anger she had anticipated. He looked at her, uncomprehending:

“Were you there to influence me when I first sought alliance with Saruman? Did you whisper in my ear when I poisoned my King's mind and sent his son to death?”

Imaén shook her head. She tried to explain that the mists and the misery he now lived in should not have been, would she have let him go his own way and make his own decisions, as is every free man's right.

He smiled sadly. Did she really think he was free at the time when she claimed that they would have met? He still could not remember it. This was because of the spell, she had said. He was not sure he believed her.

“Let's say I take your word for truth” he began. Imaén got an eased glint in her eyes, but he was not finished yet:

"Which way would I have chosen, and what decisions do you think I would have made? You were not the first to whisper tales to me," he added sadly.

And this was true. She knew he was right, that the White Wizard had spread poison in his mind for a long time. But she was not prepared to see herself as debt-free in this matter. Erred must be healed, and she was determined to carry out what she had come for. For her own sake as well as for his.

“Let me take the haze from you. Do not leave here as Worm, but as Gríma, son of Gálmód, as a man free to make his own decisions about whom to follow.”

He hesitated. The fog in his mind had become a comfort, a shelter from the harshness of reality and the shame of what he had become. She insisted. To dispel the fog and confusion would give him the strength to break the power Saruman still held over him, force enough to defy the pain and shame and to choose his own path.

“Why do you even ask permission?” he finally sighed. “You have made your decision. You are strong and I weak in this matter, surely you can break the bond whenever you wish.”

Imaén looked away for a moment. “It's not that simple. The bond I weaved cannot get scratched up from one end only. You must also be involved and,” she searched for the word, “ …willing.”

Something sparked in his eyes then. She had to his mind been far too generous with telling just how she had proceeded to ensnare him. To be told that he’d been intimate with a fair woman, but was not allowed to remember it, was a cruel thought. Too rarely had he enjoyed a woman’s attentions, and considering the life he led now, perhaps she was the last woman he would ever have had. And now, he didn’t even have the memory. He took a step toward her. He was about to get enough of words.

“Explain yourself, witch,” he growled, “is the spell bound in flesh as well as in the mind? What must you do to lift it?” He reached for her.

Imaén's nose wrinkled though she tried to persuade it not to. He smelled, no, reeked of blood, sweat, dirt and who knows what else.

“Not like that,” she said and quickly put a hand on his chest. It was the magic of mind that held him back, but she did not tell him this. “First, you have to be cleansed from the misdeeds you made while under the influence of the spell,” she improvised. She had saved and scrimped on the soap she'd got in Minas Tirith. This pleased her now.

“Fine,” he said, not entirely sure what was preventing him from claiming her there and then. “Just promise me one thing,” he continued with a wry smile. “This time, I want to _remember_.”

Imaén smiled wearily at him. This might become more difficult than she had imagined. She shrugged; “I vow not to obscure any more memories for you.”

With this he seemed content. He allowed her to undo his robes and lead him down to the water. He was vaguely aware that he would normally have felt more embarrassed about his scrawny figure and his bruises, but anticipation overshadowed the shame. He wondered how much her incantation had to do with the matter, but asked no questions. He waded out until the water reached his waist while she undressed and fetched the soap. Soon, she was next to him with a few smooth strokes. Gríma, who could not swim, fascinatedly watched her movements in the water. As soon as she was close to him, naked in the water, he wanted to touch her again. She still held him back. _Later_. She pressed him softly down onto his knees in the water so that she could wash his hair. Her hands were soft against his scalp, and he relaxed. The dagger left behind on the beach lay forgotten. Awakened was a desire that Saruman's Worm had not known he could still feel.

All soap was spent, but Imaén grieved not at this, for it makes no use fretting over things well used, only over things wasted. As they stepped out of the water, he immediately wanted to touch her again, and again she stilled his zeal; the night was still young. For this task, it would not do to rush. She led him to the bed she had prepared in the grass. Ideally, she would have first given him something to eat and drink, but she realized that the hunger that now drove him had naught to do with food, and she was willing to still it. It was not necessarily so that a spell brought on by lust must be broken by the same, but in this case it was perhaps required, thought Imaén. If the Worm did not think he had something to gain from this, he might try to recoil and defend himself. So much the better if he was willing and complicit. In addition, she remembered him as diligent and thorough. On the whole, there were only benefits, however she thought about it.

He followed her lead, shivering after the bath. The night air was not yet autumn’s chilly nip in the cheeks, but starved as he was, there was not much left to protect against the cold. He desperately wanted to grab the woman who stood before him, to bask in her embrace, but he was stopped still. Certain now that it was her work that prevented him, he was impatient to be free of this spell of hers. When two stand unclothed and both are willing, what reason is there to prevent action? Apparently something still, for now the woman spoke:

“There's one thing you must know.” Her face was solemn. He defended himself against her gravity:

“I wish to know nothing. I seek no more knowledge,” he tried, but she did not relent:

“This, you must know: you must obey when it's time to let go.”

He frowned, uncomprehending:

“How will I know when it's time to let go? How can I even release my grip?”

“You will know,” the woman said simply, “and when you do, you must immediately obey the summons, or else everything is amiss.”

He harboured a vague idea that everything he had ever known and sought had gone amiss, regardless of his intentions, but he nodded assent to Imaén. If he only could touch her, he was willing to meet the terms she had made. He reached for her again, and finally there was nothing to hold him back.

As soon as she permitted it he was over her, panting and gripping feverishly. The last time they met, Imaén had concealed herself behind the memory of the one he had loved, and she thought that the hungry attentions he had shown then had not been for her, but for another. She had felt shame to deceive him, but pleasure had overshadowed shame. This time it was she herself who was at the centre of his attention, and she found his hunger demanding and difficult to sate. Like a flood will break a dam, all poured out at once and he was swept away by the wave, unable to control himself. He, who had always considered the emotionally driven too weak, would not have been able to control his feelings and desires now even if he'd really tried. They fell down together, breathing hard, and as he let his hands explore her body he felt its response, and this goaded him even more. That a woman would respond to his touch, desire him even now, was almost too much to take in. He rode on the wave, risking to get dragged down beneath it, dropping both sense and control. He was aware that his hands on her body were too eager, too harsh; her response was pleasure tones mixed with whimpers of pain, but he could not stop himself. She was here and he was here, and the tidal wave was stronger than both of them.

Imaén gasped for breath. His hunger was not to be stopped, his mind was headed straight into the threatening mists and from that point, there was perhaps no turning back. She had to persuade him to come to his senses, to slow down; if the opportunity was lost, she might miss her chance to break the spell. And what would she tell the sages at her homecoming? I went to search, but found nothing but lust. I searched to heal, but drowned in desire. A healer, I can no longer call myself, send me away from your sight! No. This would not do at all. Imaén let her hands fly to his shoulders, his cheeks, his hair:

“Slowly, the night is still young. It will not do to hurry, let's take pleasure in each other,” she urged.

But the man called Wormtongue had no time to lose. He covered her mouth with his and drowned her protests. He let his hands caress her back into an arch, let his manhood find its way and enter her. He let the flood sweep over him, wave after wave of pleasure, while he felt the woman's response, her body greeting his and meeting him, wave by wave. He was lost, floating, eyes closed in pleasure and delight. He opened them to meet her gaze, and was greeted by two circles of fire.


	12. Chapter 12

She made dandelions grow on his grave. It was known as the Rose of the Worm in the area of Claivón. A weed but non the less a welcome sight in early summer, like small suns smiling in the grass. The roots would spread everywhere, as she reminded herself that this man's words once used to. His tomb would remain nameless, unknown, but a thousand suns would blossom there each spring. It was no King’s flower, but it was, she thought, the right choice.

The hobbits had come to reclaim the land that was theirs. Saruman had been killed and his Worm forever lost. She had felt the bond between them burst then, in his last moments, when he finally swore himself free from his master and chose a path of own. It had been too late. Three arrows had found their target before Wormtongue had time either to flee or obey the offer of shelter given to him. And Imaén, hidden in the woods and helplessly observing everything that happened, had thought she perceived a joyous song as the distorted man’s spirit escaped the shackles of his body and finally flung out, free.

He had not been able to heed her words when she tried to break her charm and release him. Lost in his desire had he clung to the binding spell: this wave he wanted to ride forever; here, he wanted to always remain. Fear of missing out on the pleasure she promised had made him cling to her, she was forced to give in to the tidal wave that was his pent-up emotional storm since all dams had burst. All his attention, all his hopes of love and affection he directed towards her that night, and only a stone stood could have resisted. The spell was only half broken, and as she did give up her power of his mind he pushed all dominion back into her arms, feverishly willing to follow and serve her for the reward of getting to rest in her embrace. Imaén could not grant his wish. Oh, surely he could follow her if he so desired, but as a free man, not as a weakling who had given all authority over himself to another. She had told him:

“You must make your own decisions and take responsibility for your actions. No one but you should have that power over yourself. Too long have you been a horse led by the bridle, it's time you resumed your seat in the saddle and decide for yourself where the road is to take you!”

He was displeased when, believing that her speech alluded to the equestrian people he derived from, and the way in which he was now become a shameful blot on the map of proud Rohan.

“So stay then and face your shame,” said Imaén annoyed, “stand up like a man and slay thy inner demons. Bring back all power over yourself that you are so willing to give away to others. Choose your actions for yourself and be not ashamed as to why!”

“A man,” he spit, “you may well see that's hardly something I can call myself anymore. You have the right to scold me for a weakling, you do not know the deeds I committed because I feared my master and his wrath.” A thought struck him: “Or is it that you do? Is that why you turn yourself from me? Were it not for your spell, you would never have shown me any kindness. What do you think I have to expect from others? Who would show me mercy?”

“I do not know what crimes you have committed,” Imaén replied wearily, “or who is going to show you the mercy you desire. Follow me if you wish, but first throw your shackles aside and become unbound from your master. Do not come back to me until you are ready to look me in the eye and tell me that you’re a man, and that you want to be free.”

He fell silent. Imaén had put her blanket over his shoulders as protection from the night air. She herself sat wrapped in her cloak. His stinking clothes remained forgotten where she had let them fall, and that was just as well. She dared not light a fire for fear of being detected by enemies. It was still far till dawn, and she shivered. She did not know what else she could say to persuade him to obey her bid. After a while he turned to her with questioning eyes:

“So ... this is farewell? Will you send me from your side now, to muster my courage best I can,” he said. Imaén did not answer immediately, for it seemed to her that he had more at heart. True and sure, he continued hesitatingly:

“Or would you perhaps show me ... mercy?” Come as far, he lowered his head and let his hair fall over his cheeks, but he was not quick enough. Imaén could see their colour shift and how he nervously moistened his lips. She had to smile:

“Mercy? I have shared bread with you, washed you and anointed healing salve on your wounds,” at this, her smile became more oblique, more cunning; “What else could I do to strengthen your courage?”

He glanced sheepishly at her. She would force him to spell it out, of this he was certain. Well, he clenched:

“Twice we have been together, but never without ulterior motive on your part,” he managed. He twisted uncomfortably but continued doggedly, bolstered by the fact that the spell had now been lifted from him well enough that he could remember both of those occasions clearly.

“If a woman should willingly take a dispirited and reprobate man to her bed, would this not strengthen his courage and raise his spirit?” There. It was said. He stared intently at her, prepared for the mocking words and the rejection that was sure to follow.

Imaén cocked her head to the side. He still had a certain amount of courage. The problem was that he did not understand it. Well, if this was what it would take for him to convince himself of his value, why not. She could afford to be... merciful. She was amazed by the storms that this man, albeit discouraged and reprobate, could awaken within her with his mouth and his hands. When the emotions he so hard had pressed below the surface eventually did well up, they were frantic, almost violent. Her own booming response to his touch had surprised her. She was more than happy to grant him his wish.

Gríma in turn was amazed to see her smile deepen, neither mocking nor in repudiation. He could hardly believe that she completely without profit would like to touch him again, but here she was now, up close. He swallowed hard, once, twice. Then, he looked up gingerly. Her face with the pointed chin and the big, unreliable eyes. Her hair in wavy curls after the bath, and for memory’s inner eye blazing red in the light of dawn. Her slender fingers untying the buckles of her cloak and the pale complexion that loomed up in the gaps. Gríma breathed faster and freed his arms from the blanket, let it slide down around his hips. He reached toward her and anew found delight in the feeling that there was nothing to hold him back. Standing on his knees, he twined the fingers of one hand in her hair, while the other shoved down the cloak from her shoulders and let it fall. His eyes widened as he felt her in return freeing him from the blanket, and how her hands excitedly began to explore his body. With heart pounding hard, he caught them and pressed them against his chest as he kissed her mouth; first softly, hesitating, but then much deeper as he felt her response. He let his hands caress her shoulders, and tenderly pecked her neck. Contentedly, he noted that she trembled as his hands travelled down her back and over the rounded hips.

Imaén let Gríma set the pace. This could be an exercise in him grasping the reins, so to speak, and take control of the journey. She pressed herself against him and knew immediately just how happy he was to see her, as the evidence of this was pressed firmly against her hip. He groaned slightly and bent her upper body backward, eagerly caressing one of her breasts with his hand while he let his tongue explore the other. Imaén felt a hot, voluptuous redness wander over her chest on its way up to her cheeks. She pressed her lower abdomen against his in response, rubbed against him, panting. His breath became heavier as he took a firm grip on her buttocks, caressing them and moved her legs so that she could wrap them around his hips. She leaned against his shoulders as he lifted her up and angled her toward him, and she uttered a noise of pleasure as he found his way and entered into her. They soon found balance and rhythm as they lustfully met each other again and again, until Gríma's body quaked from the effort and he fell backward into the grass, desperately grasping Imaén’s hips as not to lose the lovely rhythm. She deftly parried the new position, her heart rate so high that blood whistled in her ears, her body naught but a tool to the wild, passionate rhythm that seemed to live a life of its own and which did not allow either of them to miss a single beat. He pushed himself up to meet her as he pulled her hips towards him. Imaén took one of his hands and pressed it against her pleasure centre, where he quickly fell into the rhythm with a circular motion. She moaned loudly with pleasure and he answered her likewise, both caught in the crescendo of the wild rhythm, and in a final effort they both sang its praises and sank gasping in each other’s arms. Thus they remained for a while, happily oblivious to the outside world. At this moment, there was in truth mercy and consolation to be had for the both of them.

In early, gray dawn they parted. Imaén had followed Gríma back along the purling brook and watched until he slipped in and disappeared among the houses. All the grace she had to give, he had received, and if he saw his flushed cheeks as a symbol of courage, well, so much the better. She wished him luck, wished him free. But this was a path he must walk, however difficult it might be. She found her look-out tree and sat down to wait.

That the wrath of Saruman's would be difficult, Gríma had anticipated, but prepared enough he was not as he, mind still full of sweet thoughts of the night gone by, sneaked into the shed Saruman had assigned to him and walked straight into the arms of the wizard. Saruman did not usually seek out his Worm in its camp, but the fact that the Worm had been out all night and lingered to report on the mission he had been sent on had made the former Istari furious. Such disobedience! Such contempt must be severely punished, and was not to be repeated. Saruman had had a full night’s time to enrage himself properly, as he impatiently awaited answers about the deeds he had set his Worm to carry out. It should not have taken long, but here was Worm after a full night, meandering on as if nothing had happened and with a defiant countenance. Saruman struck, and he struck hard; shattered were the night’s sweet memories and the hope of being able to break free. The Worm was useless, sang Saruman, dripping tones of venom in its ear: inept, clumsy and imperfect. Unwanted by everyone and everything, a liar and a murderer.

“ _Whom, seen your true face, would wish you,”_ hissed the sorcerer's seductive voice, “ _do you think the world is blind?”_ And the Worm knew that what he heard was true; he closed his eyes, bent to his master’s voice and let the beatings hail over himself. But when finally left alone, dry sobs echoing within the shed, there was nevertheless a part deep within him, knowing that he had been told lies. He had once again been torn down and broken. And in the midst of his downhearted chest chafed and chafed a small grain of courage.

“Worm! Worm!”

When he finally opened his eyes to obey his master's call, he was mad, torn and unwell, but he was no longer Worm; he was Gríma, son of Gálmód, and he wanted to be free.

 

**Epilogue**

There is a place in the forest where a thousand suns bloom every spring. They shine for one who too rarely got to know tenderness or happiness. They spread light upon his knowledge of life and of the secrets he took with him to his grave. They bear witness of the mercy given to his tarnished soul.

Far away, in another forest, a rider approaches home. She went off seeking knowledge of her people and of their roots, to find the source of the witchcraft known by the forest people and to learn from their scriptures and legends. Knowledge is power. But power, she learned, is a fleeting thing and the knowledge she sought was not the one she found. It’s spring, the trees are green and the grass is lit with dandelions. The woman strokes her rounded belly distractedly. She gets a little throbbing in response. Imaén smiles. A small seed of courage, a gift she carries with her from her travels. And when those little hands get big enough, she will teach them how to plate a wreath of dandelions.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so is this story finished. Many thanks to those who have read and left feedback, even in the long years of hiatus!
> 
> Imaén and Gríma's night together played out just before the Battle of Shire, and when Wormtongue heed his master’s cries, it is because Frodo and the other Hobbits have just told Saruman to leave. Shortly after this Gríma kills Saruman and gets himself killed by archers.
> 
> One of the drifts for this story was that I wanted to write a tale where Gríma gets a happy ending. One of the reasons that it took more than ten years to finish the story was that it would not let me write that happy ending. In my story, Gríma Wormtongue had to die. I'll leave the happy endings to other stories, I know of some who've managed to tell them.
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated!  
> Love!

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written back in 2003 and has been posted elsewhere under the title "All there is to know". As I'm moving it here, I've edited the entire fic in an attempt to make it flow better. I've changed the title as well, as I think this one better reflects the story. Other than that, it's a Gríma/OC fic. I have no regrets. <3


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